


Satan's Guide to a Lonely Love Life

by Tabbikatt



Category: South Park
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:40:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22276477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tabbikatt/pseuds/Tabbikatt
Summary: Craig hates his job, hates his car, and hates his life. Most importantly though, he hates the fact that he’s still in love with his ex-boyfriend and is too chickenshit to do anything about it. Stan can relate. Somehow, Satan thinks they’re just the ones to nab him a new boyfriend.
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak, Kenny McCormick/Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh
Comments: 3
Kudos: 59





	1. Satan

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story a couple years back and it's kind of just been chillin' in my word doc with nowhere to go. So I thought, why not post it? 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Every day, just like fuckin’ clockwork, it was the same, old bullshit: Introduce yourself as the All-Powerful Lord of Evil, do the whole “Welcome to Hell” spiel, and make everyone feel at least a _little_ guilty for shitting all over Mormonism.

Because really, Mormons weren’t _bad_ ; they were just… annoying. Anyone who had ever made a pitstop in Heaven could attest to that. Which _would_ explain its terrible yelp reviews.

Not that that was _God’s_ fault by any means. The guy was _only_ trying to ruin a business. Satan would’ve been lying, though, if he said he never trolled the forums to see which people preferred: “The Mormon Paradise”, A.K.A. Heaven; or “The Coolest Fucking Place This Side of the Cosmos,” A.K.A. Hell. (Hint - It was Hell. He threw fucking _sweet_ parties, no matter _what_ his colleagues said. Mormon parties never had any alcohol and you _needed_ to be drunk to deal with their idealistic bullshit.)

But he digressed.

The whole “scare everyone into feeling bad for being stuck in Hell” thing got pretty old, pretty fuckin’ fast. Immortal or not, Satan occasionally liked having a moment alone and though he only had to do the whole “welcome to Hell, hope your eternity sucks” bit once a day (the other times done by one of his many, many assistants), days down in Hell never felt long enough. Getting called away all because some fuckwits couldn’t hold off on dying a few more years was still annoying as shit.

Humans proved time and time again to be completely _useless_ in the face of Death, however, so he never knew why was even surprised. Death could literally reach out, touch a strand of hair and then _boom_. Dead. He traversed the Earth like a leisurely walk in the park, so Satan sometimes wondered if the guy had his hand constantly hanging out, ready to slap the nearest innocents who happened to pass by the weirdo in the black cloak. Probably. But the guy never spoke, only communicating through vague nods and hand gestures, so it was a mystery for the ages.

The new Hell Coordinator was some goth chick named Samantha who seemed to work well enough. She regularly signed to Death, despite stating that her mortal form had never learned a lick of ASL. In her words, it was “too conformist.” According to her Death Certificate, she died due to her local Denny’s running out of coffee grounds.

So, she was… weird. But he figured most humans were in one way or another. She was doing just _fine_ as his pseudo-assistant. When she strolled off-stage, after handing him the microphone, she walked with her shoulders slumped like she’d just exerted all her energy for the day. 

“Jesus fucking Hell,” Satan mumbled to himself. A sizable crowd stood before him with more popping in every few seconds. Some seemed neutral to the experience while some threw fits of rage when they realized where they were. Most, however, wailed as loud as they could, their cries carrying over the sounds of screams in the background.

He rolled his eyes, tapping the head of the mic. The staticky feedback was thankfully enough to silence most of the crowd; tears still silently trekked down the pallid cheeks of the ones in front, but at least they weren’t _wailing_. He’d never been sympathetic toward sobbing and this was no exception; it was killer on the ears.

“Alright, alright,” he said, trying not to sound like _too_ big a dickhole, “calm down. Yes, you’re dead. Yes, this is Hell. Yes, you’re here for all eternity. Any questions?” He glanced over at Samantha who stood just offstage. She made a motion with her hands he took either to mean, “grow fangs and threaten to suck their blood” or “scare the shit out of them.”

Well, he wasn’t a goddamn vampire, so the latter was by far, the more practical choice. But come _on_. Huge, red guy with a huge, red ass? Scariness should’ve been implied by Moment One.

Still, he briefly held the mic away to mutter, “this is fucking lame.” When he drew it back, he took a deep breath, trying to drink in the unabashed wickedness. Hell held all forms of pure evil and goddamnit, he was the leader of the shithole he called home. The fucking _Devil_ and not that lame-ass _Canadian_ Devil or whatever. The _actual_ Devil. He could growl; he could snarl; he could be _evil._ What came out, however, sounded more like a lion cub learning to roar.

Samantha sighed, but he ignored her.

“Why am I _here_?” someone yelled. “I went to church! I donated to charity! I did everything _right_! I should be in _Heaven_ , goddamnit!”

Ignoring the possible implications of taking God’s name in vain – since the Big Guy himself never really gave a shit anyway – Satan pinched the bridge of his nose. Every. Fucking. Time. “What religion were you?” he asked, the words heavy on his tongue because somehow, some way, he _knew_ the answer.

“Christian, of course!”

“See now, _that’s_ your problem, guy.” Satan gazed at the crowd for the first time, trying to pinpoint the problem child. They blended in a perpetual melting pot of whiny pissants who _never_ seemed to understand that he wasn’t the one who made the fucking rules. If _God_ wanted to be surrounded by a bunch of happy-go-lucky-do-you-want-to-hear-the-good-news weirdos, that was _his_ problem. Hell wasn’t nearly as picky. And immortality be damned, he was getting too old for this shit. Still, he pressed on, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears, “see, you should have gone Mormon. The correct answer is _Mormon_.”

The inevitable rabble that erupted in the crowd was nothing new. They yelled about how Joseph Smith was a fraud; about how Judaism or Hinduism made more sense. Yada, yada, yada. He held off on telling them where to stick their second-rate opinions on the afterlife, since that would’ve been pointless, too. With the mood he was in, he would’ve never have been able to raise his voice above the fray. God was a huge stickler for choosing the correct candidates for his precious Cloud City and judging by the bitching and moaning he had to listen to, day in and day out, Satan started to think the guy had the right idea.

Any sort of compliance flew straight out the window as his feeble attempts to calm the mass failed. He sighed again. They were acting like they weren’t standing before the literal King of Hell. Like he didn’t matter. And the saddest part about it was, in the long run, it _wouldn’t_ matter; they were stuck down here whether they liked it or not and he had to plaster on a scary face to make them feel bad.

He allowed the tiny mic to slip from his fingertips, sending it cascading to the stage. The feedback rang out in the form of a long screech, but it didn’t matter. The crowd kept yelling. He frowned at Samantha as she scrambled to stage, snatching the mic again.

“Uh,” she said, “so that was Satan. Your king. _My_ king. My boss. So welcome to Hell. Hope you enjoy the rest of eternity.”

The further he got, the less he could hear of her fumbled intro as the audio grew faint. He walked back home, head down, his hands shoved in his pockets and tail between the legs. Nothing really mattered. Nothing ever would.

~ ~ ~

After spending the better part of an hour washing the same two dishes – not that they were dirty to begin with – Satan wasn’t surprised when he had a visitor. He flicked the water at the dry air, ran his hands down his thighs, then opened the door. Samantha stumbled past him, looking worse for wear. She collapsed into the cushy armchair near the front entrance, holding her forehead.

“You know,” he said, peering over his half-moon glasses, “you _really_ don’t need to go into specifics with these people.” He motioned to the wide window. Outside, Hellfire burned long and bright. Demons soared through the ashy sky, their pointed wings burned to a crisp.

“This is _Hell_ , for Christ’s sake. Anything they don’t hear on the introductory tour; they’ll figure out eventually.” He frowned when all she did was send him a weary glare.

“Yeah, but it’s hard to get away when all they wanna do is ask why the fuckin’ _Mormons_ are so goddamn special,” she retorted, twisting a flyaway hair on the tip of her bony finger. The black polish was chipping away; she’d been working too hard for nothing.

“Dude, _fuck_ them.” Satan rolled his eyes, sitting down across from her on the ragged, marinara-stained sofa. God, he needed new furniture. “They can take it up with the fucks upstairs if they’re so worried. It’s _their_ decision, not mine.” 

“I know.” She paused, a small smile spreading along her tired face. “That’s why I gave them Heaven’s hotline. Jesus’s cell, too.”

He grinned. “They’re not gonna like that.”

She laughed, absently dragging the tip of her knee-high boot across the carpet. “Yeah, but even if they come down and fuckin’ smite me or whatever, where would they send me? Detroit?”

Satan’s smile faded away. When she asked if anything was wrong, he only shook his head. “Nothing important,” he said, glancing at the calendar hanging below the wall clock. It was already December, which meant another year was approaching. And another year meant another _Valentine’s Day_. 

Stupid Earth. It really was the worst planet. Coming up with all these bullshit holidays.

“But uh,” Samantha continued, offering another hesitant grin, “if you wanna make someone else do the middle-of-day intro thing tomorrow, I’ll make arrangements. Maybe just make that pussy, Chris, do all the hard shit.”

He forced a smile. The _only_ reason she was his new coordinator was due to Chris quitting. He and Satan still managed to stay friends, but them working so closely had only made things awkward in the long run. Chris now worked as an underling, one of the bitches everyone turned to when they didn’t want to dirty their hands. On the bright side, the dude finally got the demon wings he’d been vying for since he and Satan broke up all those years ago.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said quietly, gazing out the window again. This was his home. This was _always_ going to be his home. “That will be all for today. If anyone has any question, direct them to Hitler. Dude’s been down here long enough; he knows the ropes.”

Samantha didn’t say anything. She only gave a single, solemn nod and left, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Running Hell was hardly a one-man job. Sure, he was King and that was great and all, but it wasn’t fulfilling by any means. The job was nothing more than a series of hollow victories. Plus, one day he eventually hoped to pass the title onto his son. Damien never showed any _interest_ in becoming a King, but the kid was a Prince. Technically. So, he eventually _had_ to take over. Whatever.

“I fuckin’ hate Earth,” he muttered. His hooves carried him to the desk on just the other end of the room. He sat on the swiveled chair, running a hand over the tattered mahogany. The desk was a birthday gift from his ex a few years prior; he’d acted like a spoiled child, throwing a tantrum because he wanted _oak_ , not _mahogany._ In retrospect, he knew he should’ve been happy to receive the gift at all.

He glanced down at the series of drawers at the bottom. He hadn’t opened them in years due to a photo. It was still inside. Probably. But fuck that, he didn’t need to _see_ the photo; the drawer was probably locked anyway, and who the fuck knew where the key would be?

“Like, who gives a shit about Valentine’s Day?” he monologued, resting a hand on the cool handle of the top-most drawer. Even knowing it _probably_ wouldn’t open, he still gave it a good tug.

Nothing happened.

“It’s just a shitty excuse to make shitty single people feel bad about not being in love in the middle of goddamn, fucking _February_.” He yanked harder; the drawer still didn’t budge, though the desk itself rocked forward.

“And, like February’s the shortest month. So stupid. Only twenty-eight fuckin’ days?” He yanked harder still; the desk inched forward as his rolling chair inched back. “It’s a stupid month for a stupid fake holiday and – Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ _, move_. What the fuck is _holding_ this thing? Superglue?”

One last pull tore the drawer straight out, sending it flying into the wide window. Shattered glass rained sideways, littering the tattered couch. Some demons assigned to helping new recruits flew toward the broken pane, asking if everything was alright. The newbies stood to the side, awkwardly shuffling their feet and pretending not to notice the King have his daily mental break down.

Satan only sighed, ignoring their pointless inquiries. The photo – one of him and his ex during their last trip to Earth – fluttered in the breeze, landing in his lap. He grabbed it, tearing it cleanly in two. “Goddamnit,” he muttered, “the hell is _wrong_ with me?”

~ ~ ~

“I really don’t understand what you expect _me_ to do about it.”

Satan placed the phone between his ear and shoulder as he grabbed the clipboard. He scribbled a quick signature, giving Adolph permission to do… something. Maybe he was signing for a package? Who knew, who cared. Either way, the former dictator skipped away like a little kid on the way to the candy store.

“I dunno, man. Set me up or some shit? I’m lonely.” He nodded to Princess Diana when she waved from her second-story window. The streets of Hell were paved with ash and, like always, blanketed in a thin layer of smoke. This was always a topic of discussion among the newbies, like they expected Satan to fuckin’ blow it all away. As if. He ignored them; they’d get used to it eventually.

“I thought we had this discussion. You were to spend time on yourself. You don’t need someone else to make you happy.”

Satan rolled his eyes. This conversation was going nowhere fast. Truthfully, the fact that he was even _having_ it was fucking lame. He paused outside J.F.K.’s loft, leaning his hefty body against the golden bricks. “Look, man. That was like twelve years ago. I think twelve years is _plenty_ of time.” His only companion since then was Mr. Hat and Mr. Hat had run off a few years prior with someone named Mr. Stick.

(Mr. Hat was a perverted asshole, anyway, so Satan found that he didn’t really mind.)

“But you remember what happened _last_ time –”

Satan pinched the bridge of his nose. This shit again. Everyone always seemed to have a habit of dredging up the past like he didn’t feel bad enough about his past mistakes. Ruler of Hell or not, he had a fucking _conscience_ , damnit. “Saddam is up with you and all the lame-ass Mormons,” he muttered, picking at a scab on his forearm. “He’s not getting out anytime soon.”

“Regardless, Satan. You don’t need another person to make you happy.”

“I know, but –”

“Look, I don’t know how to help you because I don’t know what you _want_. Just – I don’t know. Go bother the humans or something; they seem bored.”

Satan blinked heavily, squinting through the veil of smoke. It was really bad today. “A _human_?” When was the last time he spoke with the _humans_? Besides the ones in Hell, of course, though many of them had been promoted to demon status. “Like… the ones on Earth?”

“In Hell, on Earth. Whatever. See if they have any insight. I’m sure someone will be willing.”

“But how –” Satan licked his lip, trying to get the words in the correct order. It was an odd request, even by his own standards. “But how do I convince them? And _where_ on Earth should I go anyway? Humans are fuckin’ weird, bro.”

“I don’t know. Just pick a city and go from there. But look, I have to go. Godly responsibilities and all that shit.”

“… alright. I think I know just the place.”


	2. Craig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will mostly alternate between Craig and Stan's POVs, so of course, this has to be the obligatory introduction for Craig. There will be a plot in all this, I promise.

Two A.M.

The TV just _had_ to be on at two A.M.

The X-Box just _had_ to be on at two A.M.

Clyde-whatever-the-fuck-Donavan just _had_ to be playing _Guitar Hero_ – a game that no one had thought about in _years_ – at two. Fucking. A.M.

Sleep was important, but apparently not in the books for the night. Groaning, Craig dragged a hand down his face. His eyes ached, but whenever he came even marginally close to drifting off, his idiot roommate would yell something and startle him awake again. And of _course_ , his headphones were busted, so drowning out the noise was a no-go, as well.

Then there was the whole ‘broken window that could never fully close… thing.’ A thin sheet covered the opening, but with Colorado’s unforgiving winter in full swing, he still froze to death half the time. Even this thick comforter did little to help since he always found it on the floor whenever he awoke.

All in all, living with Clyde was an adventure in its own right. And though Craig _did_ consider Clyde one of his best friends, it wasn’t really a _fun_ adventure much of the time. He flipped off the thin walls when Clyde let out another stupid, sort of… _whooping_ sound. Jesus Christ

“Shut the fuck _up_ ,” he growled, tugging on the flaps of his chullo. It too served as a too blatant reminder than his best friend _could_ anger him enough to potentially rip his favorite hat. As it were, the seams were already wearing out due to age. His grandma had gifted it to him on his birthday, chucking when she realized it was far too large for any eight-year-old’s head.

He grew into it though, and if he did _tear_ it, he was going to bust Clyde’s tiny, little nuts.

Idiot.

“You’re – _ngh_ – getting pretty good at this, Clyde!”

Craig yanked his hat down, completely blinding himself to any stray light. Not that there was much to _start_ with. Because it was two in the goddamn morning. If he didn’t get _some_ sleep soon, he was going to wind up snoozing straight through his alarms and, unlike _some_ people, he worked in the morning.

(Some days, he wondered if Clyde even _had_ a job, but whatever. Another fight for another day.)

“I’m gonna break your X-Box!” he yelled and then waited for a response. Sadly, nothing happened. No hushed, “oh, shit” and scrambling for respective rooms.

No, his roommates continued on, as if their third party member was already safe and sound in Imaginationland. Mostly Clyde. Tweek seemed to keep to himself, only making the occasional comment about how awesome Clyde was at the game and all that bullshit. _Or_ maybe Clyde’s loud, nasally voice drowned out any other commentary.

In any case, they needed to go to _bed_.

In a fit of weak rage, Craig tore off his hat and tossed it to the darkness. Whatever, he’d look for it later. This was fucking ridiculous. Two in the morning, Donovan, _really?_ The neighbors were _going_ to lodge a complaint. Or call the cops. (Though Craig, Clyde and Tweek were all _white_ , so they’d probably take one look at the place and spin right back around. This was why Craig never dared invite Token over; the _last_ thing they needed was the idiot South Park police force swarming the area with their too-full array of AK-47s, demonstrating their whole, “shoot first, ask questions later” attitude. Craig was getting that security deposit back if it fucking _killed_ him.)

With faux-confidence, he got out of bed and padded down the hall, using the blue sheen from the living room to light the way. Drawing near, however, only made his heart sting, like it was being poked and prodded with a series of thorns and needles. So he shied away, falling flat against the wall. He rubbed his aching eyes with the heels of his hands.

Over a literal _decade_ to deal with this shit and what was he doing? Still standing in the darkness, too afraid to step toward the spotlight.

“Ooh, I gotta try this one next!”

Or… fuck it. Taking a breath, he stood back up, his knees cracking like he’d just hit his fortieth birthday or some shit.

The TV was the only source of light. Clyde stood on the sofa, tongue poking out, like he was concentrating on something vitally _important._ The guy had problems. The guy had a _lot_ of problems, most of which stemmed from his current obsession with fucking _Guitar Hero._ No one played _Guitar Hero_ anymore; it was fucking lame.

Craig leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms against his heaving chest. He tried keeping his eyes focused on Clyde and his stupidity, because looking at Tweek wasn’t going to do him _any_ good. He hadn’t made direct eye contact with Tweek in, like, two years and if he never did again, it would be all the better. Living in the same apartment was bad enough.

Still, if his eyes happened to stray – and they often did when it came to the twitchy blonde – he couldn’t help that. Tweek sat on the floor, his back resting against the sofa. Every so often, he’d briefly spasm, but for the most part, he seemed calm. He wasn’t even _really_ watching Clyde play; his eyes mainly focused on his drink.

Craig smiled softy as he stared at the very person he promised himself he _wouldn’t_ gawk at like a fucking moron: Tweek was sipping from the very mug _he_ got him.

When Craig handed it over one day, hoping the redness in his cheeks could be explained away by the cool, autumn winds, Tweek only stared in awe. It was like the guy had never received a _gift_ before. But then a slow, wonderous smile graced his features and he took the mug, cradling it carefully in both hands.

“Thank you, Craig,” he’d said, his voice hardly above a whisper. “I really appreciate it.”

If Craig hadn’t loved Tweek before then – and he _knew_ he did, because you can’t just harbor a five-year crush on your best friend _without_ falling a little in love – he definitely did after that. He’d turned and walked away, trying to maintain a cool nonchalance because he had a _reputation_ , damnit, even if his erratic pulse said otherwise.

(Tweek had texted him later that night, asking what was wrong and Craig only responded with a despondent, “I had class, dude. See ya tomorrow.” He’d almost punched himself in the face when Tweek’s reply to _that_ was an equally despondent, “okay” and a frowny face.)

And that had happened _five years ago._ They’d been teenagers then, dreaming of a better tomorrow. Craig wanted to confess his pathetic crush even back _then_ , but chickened out. Every. Single. Time. Because though they’d already tried the whole ‘dating’ thing, that had been for show when they were _ten_ and he couldn’t just come out and say, “hey, I know the whole yaoi thing was awkward and all, but we should try for _reals_.” Tweek would just freak the fuck out and never speak to him again.

So, he kept his mouth shut on all accounts. He was keeping this friendship afloat if it _killed_ him. Having Tweek has a best friend was painful and probably always would be, but it was better than not having him around at _all_. But then here he was, five fucking years later, no closer to confessing than he had been as a brace-faced seventeen-year-old.

Fuck.

Craig trailed his gaze down the outline of Tweek’s face; from his bright, blue eyes to the long eyelashes that fluttered against his peachy skin to his cute, button nose to – _fuck_. He was beautiful.

“Jesus Christ,” Craig muttered. He threaded his fingers through his unkempt hair. From his cheeks to the tips of his uncovered, hatless ears, his face ran hot. Being doused in literal _flames_ probably would’ve hurt less honestly because being gay didn’t mean that he had to get all sappy and shit. But Jesus Christ, it wasn’t _fair_. It just wasn’t fucking _fair._ Because pining for his best friend was bad enough, but he’d been doing it for more than half his _life_ and the more he thought about it, the more pathetic he knew it sounded. He was effectively trapped in limbo – either confess and deal with the inevitable rejection, or suffer in silence like he’d been _already_ doing for the better part of a decade.

Still. That wasn’t important. Not now.

“Can you turn off the goddamn TV?” he snapped, once he was able to drag himself from the shadows. His face still flamed and was probably still cherry-red as a result, but he could just blame it on the anger. He _was_ angry to be fair, but for far too many reasons to count.

Clyde fell off the sofa. Face-first.

Tweek (understandably) flipped his shit, splashing his drink everywhere: On the TV stand, on the carpet, on the sofa, on himself. Hopefully it wasn’t too hot. There was no steam gathering in the stale air, so probably not. He leapt to his feet, eyes wide.

“Shit, man.” Clyde pulled himself up, rubbing his pink nose. “You scared the piss outta me.”

“I hope not,” Craig deadpanned. “I already gotta clean the coffee stains.”

Tweek winced, but Craig ignored him for now. For the time being, he focused on Clyde and Clyde’s stupidity and why the fuck he was still friends with the idiot. It was a common query, one that popped into Craig’s head on a somewhat regular basis.

“Do you _really_ need to play fuckin’ _Guitar Hero_ at two A.M.?” He motioned at the TV with a dramatic flourish of his hand. God, he felt fuckin’ gay sometimes. “You could just, I dunno – go to fucking _sleep_ or something?”

Clyde tapped his chin thoughtfully, as if considering the idea. “I wanted to see if I could beat Stan and Kyle’s score.”

Craig rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes so hard that they should’ve fallen out of his skull and sprouted legs; it wouldn’t be the first time something grew limbs and terrorized the town. He blamed the radiation in the air, thanks to a little well-known scientist. “Dude, that was, like, twelve years ago.”

“Well, I know, but –”

“ _StanandKyle_ ,” Craig continued, mashing to their names together because they were so pathetically codependent that they may as _well_ have been one sentient being, “ _also_ hit a million in _co-op_ mode. They cheated, dude. Do you know how long it’ll take you to hit a million in _single_ player mode?” He gestured at the TV again; the pause screen was silent which he would’ve found just fine and dandy just a few minutes prior. But now, with nothing to distract him, the only thing he heard was his own labored breathing and thundering pulse. Tweek’s eyes lingered on him, as well, and it was getting harder to ignore.

“But _Craig –_ ”

“Plus, do you remember what _happens_ when you hit a million?”

“No.”

Craig breathed deep through his nose and flexed his fingers, in and out, in and out. An instrumental version of _Carry on Wayward Son_ played in a loop inside his head, like he was stuck in inside an elevator on the bottom floor of a tall hotel. It would be his luck that someone day he’d be trapped inside an elevator with _Clyde,_ and _that_ would be the song playing in the background. Clyde would air-guitar along with it, and Craig would punch him in the head.

“We were _there_ for it,” he eventually groused, fisting the hem of his cotton tee. “Marsh and Broflovski got in some idiotic lover’s spat; Marsh got high on dragons or something and cheated on Broflovski with some stoner dude; they made up, went to Marsh’s place, hit a million and the game called them _fags_.” He fixed Clyde with a level stare. “Do you _want_ to be called a fag? ‘Cause I gotta tell ya, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

It was one _very_ few times Craig had willingly hung out with Marsh’s gang outside of class. Not counting the whole Peruvian-get-sent-to-Guantanamo-Bay fiasco because he wanted to dispel that from his mind altogether, thanks much. There was a hundred bucks he was _never_ getting back. Assholes.

“I guess not,” Clyde muttered. He pensively rubbed his chin as he stared at the TV. Like he expected the video crowd to come to life and praise him for the measly half-mill blinking in the corner. But hey, at _least_ the guy wasn’t pussy-footing around on easy mode; he was in expert. If Craig still gave two shits about Guitar Hero, he might have praised his friend. But as it were, it was late and he _really_ didn’t care to talk about a game half the population had forgot even existed.

“Just go to bed, dude.” Craig’s own empty bed awaited, though he had to get up in a few hours anyway. His boss _really_ didn’t take kindly to tardy employees, so he couldn’t afford to be late. Getting up at the asscrack of dawn wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time unless it somehow included signing a paper that said, “ah, yes. I’ll accept this million-dollar reward for traversing through Friend Zone Hell the last ten years. Just let me take my money and move to Cabo.” If only.

Clyde only sighed as he stalked back to his room, dragging the controller behind him like he was afraid Craig would use it to smash the X-Box. Granted, Craig _did_ pride himself in being a PS4 guy – something that he and Marsh had in common, much to his dismay – bur he wasn’t _that_ big a douche. An asshole, yes, but never a douche.

When Clyde’s door clicked shut, Craig rounded onto Tweek. He could sense his features softening as they often did when faced with his ex. Over the years, he’d managed to keep the yearning to a low buzz because having a heart attack everytime they even _spoke_ would just be exhausting.

But fuck. He loved him. He loved him so much it _hurt_.

“I’m _sooo_ sorry, Craig,” Tweek said, sounding characteristically frantic, “it’s just – _ngh_ – I couldn’r sleep and Clyde was out here playing the X-Box and I’m – I’m more of a PS4 guy – _ngh_ – so I said that I’d watch him and he mentioned – _ngh_ – he mentioned wanting to beat and Stan and Kyle’s score – so –” He stopped immediately when Craig held up a hand.

“Please,” Craig said, shaking his head. “Please just go to bed.”

Tweek’s eyes veered down, grazing the coffee permanently embedded in the once-white carpet. Honestly, Craig really didn’t _care_ ; Tweek’s caffeine addiction caused him to spill coffee at least twice a day and it would take far too much effort to clean it at this point. So, he just let it be.

Craig took the opportunity to look Tweek up and down, despite _knowing_ that it was a bad idea. Tweek’s jade button-down was unevenly fastened – as it always was – revealing several inches of skin near his navel. The words of his idiot best friend echoed in his head, “bite a pillow or somethin’ when you’re jackin’ it, dude. You’re fucking loud. Go masturbate in the bathroom like a respectable adult.”

Craig quickly looked back up when Tweek whipped his head back up; he swallowed, hoping that Tweek hadn’t noticed him gawking.

“Don’t you want me to clean that up first?” Tweek asked, shifting his weight between legs.

Craig shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.” Silently, he thanked whatever deity that might’ve been listening that he was wearing his too large pajama pants. Still, he pressed his legs together when a series of mental images worked their way into his mind’s eye. He _really_ needed this conversation to end for the sake of their friendship.

Tweek nodded, apparently taking Craig’s red face as a warning sign. He scrambled back to his own room, leaving the empty mug on the floor. When his door clicked shut, Craig sighed and picked up the mug, cradling it in his palms. It was still warm from both the coffee and, no doubt, Tweek’s own hands.

He set the mug on the TV stand and padded back to his room, giving Tweek’s door a longing glance. Fuck, it was too late for this shit. Sleep was important. Sleep was certainly more important than a stupid crush.

~ ~ ~

“Ay, Tucker!”

Craig rolled his eyes as he entered the tavern. His boss stood behind the counter, cleaning a dirty-looking shot glass with an equally dirty-looking rag. Idly, he wondered why anyone would ever _want_ to come here anyway because Skeeter himself should have been enough to turn anyone away. Not just because of his _appearance_ , though Skeeter’s greying hair had probably scared off its fair share of patrons (if South Park’s general attitude toward old people was anything to go by). Skeeter’s overall attitude was also pretty shitty, too, as he constantly just _had_ to spout right-wing bullshit to anyone who cared to listen.

“You’re _late_ , Tucker!” Skeeter’s thick, country hick accent really didn’t do him any favors either, though he easily reeled in the redneck crowd, so that was something.

Craig glanced at the clock as he grabbed his apron out of his bag. It was seven past nine. Technically his shift started _at_ nine – at least according to the chickenshit scribbles in the schedule book – but who the hell _cared?_ They were lucky Craig even _showed up,_ Jesus.

“I don’t take kindly ta late em _play_ ees, Tucker.”

“I’m sorry, _sir_ ,” Craig muttered. He ran a hand through his hatless hair, feeling naked. As he walked toward the back to store his backpack in one of the two lockers Skeeter so _kindly_ supplied them, he was hardly surprised to see the redneck asshat following him, still bitching about something or other. Craig tended to tune him out most days because otherwise he’d wind up socking the fucker upside the head.

“Now that _you’re_ here,” Skeeter was saying when Craig forced himself to listen, “I’mma send Kevin ta break, ‘n you can start takin’ orders, Mr. Waiter, sir.”

Craig bit back a groan. Being a waiter meant he had to _smile._ Not that he _never_ smiled. He smiled for his friends all the time (though mainly Tweek and Token) and could occasionally force a smile for his family. Smiling at the townsfolk, however, was another thing. Especially the special sort of clientele that graced the bar with their drunken bullshit.

Beyond that though, his eyes fucking _burned_. Whatever sleep he’d managed to get wasn’t enough. He’d spent a good twenty minutes trying to get his dick to calm the fuck down after talking with Tweek and then laid awake another good while after _that_. Ugh.

He shook his head and opened the locker. Kevin Stoley’s stuff was already inside, though the dude only had a kid-sized Star Trek knapsack which hardly took any room. Dude needed to grow up for _real._

He rested his forehead against the cool metal, though it provided little comfort. No matter. His shift was only ‘til three. Only six hours. He could deal.

~ ~ ~

“ _Craig!”_

Shit, shit, _shit_.

Spilling an entire tray of drinks was bad enough, but spilling an entire tray of drinks on a table full of already angry rednecks was about as bad as it could get.

Stoley jumped in front of Craig just as the men rose from their seats. Beer pooled on the floor around their table and Craig sighed, realizing he’d have to grab the mop. Goddamnit.

Upon further inspection, he also realized that one of the men was Randy Marsh – A.K.A. Saint Marsh’s father. Which might have been alright if he gave two shits about Saint Marsh, but he wasn’t going to pretend he was BFFs with the guy _just_ to avoid certain death. Besides, Randy seemed so far gone, he probably would’ve confused his own son for a fuckin’ dragon or something.

“I’m sure it was an accident, guys,” Stoley said, holding his arm out.

Randy opened his mouth, though nothing came out. He only regarded Craig and Stoley with a half-mast stare, waggling his finger. He looked like a drunk toddler. Not that he didn’t _usually_ look like a drunk toddler. The dude was weird. So fucking _weird_. He had a _cooking_ fetish. What the actual hell.

Skeeter lazily sauntered over, placing himself in the midst of the fray. He shot Craig a hard stare. “I’m sure they didn’ mean nuttin’ by it,” he said, not sounding like he gave a shit one way or another.

“It was an honest accident,” Stoley cut in, though he clamped his mouth shut when Skeeter’s gaze turned toward him.

Craig rolled his eyes. This was fuckin’ _lame_. His left hand literally _twitched_ with an urge to flip off the masses, so he placed it inside the apron pocket. His middle finger lifted of its own accord once inside. A small victory, but a relaxing one.

“Jus’ get yer shit ta’gether, boys,” Skeeter muttered.

“Hey, _he’s_ the klutz!” Stoley exclaimed, prodding Craig’s chest with an accusing finger. When Craig gave his best, ‘touch me again and I’ll _break_ your finger’ stare, Stoley slowly lowered his hand and took a long step back. So much for the ‘honest accident’ bit; it really _was_ , but Craig wasn’t exactly keen on getting shot in the head by some drunken asshat, so it _wouldn’t_ be an accident if his foot wound up in Stoley’s nerdy ass. Traitor prick.

He muttered a hollow apology to his boss as he stooped down to collect the drink tray. The whole bar regularly smelt of cheap alcohol and curly fries, but the addition of the redneck B.O. made things all the worse. He almost gagged.

“Stoley, I need ya ta clean this shit up,” Skeeter said and for a moment, Craig thought that _maybe_ justice would be served. Just this once. Because if _anyone_ was the klutz, it was Kevin Stoley and his stupid bowl-cut; the dude was always dropping food in customers’ laps, breaking shot glasses, and just generally sucking at what Craig considered a pretty easy gig. If anyone ever _did_ call him out on it – namely, Craig – he’d shrug and claim that he’d been abducted by visitors who shoved a probe up his tiny ass.

Honestly, at this point in his life, Craig wouldn’t have been surprised, but _still_.

“Craig, take care of the newcomers,” Skeeter said. A sense of foreboding showered Craig as it generally did when faced with _actual_ customers, but this was worse. Because when he followed Skeeter’s wrinkly, old finger, he found the old man pointing at the _very_ people he _never_ wanted to see: The Awful Foursome themselves, Saint Marsh, the Jew, the Fat Fuck, and of course, the Perv. They sat squashed together in the same booth near the back.

Of the four, Kenny McKormick was at least _tolerable._ He wasn’t a sociopath like Eric Cartman or constantly up his own ass with fake moralistic bullshit like Stan Marsh or Kyle Broflovski. His biggest flaw, beyond sometimes being _impossible_ to understand under the cover of a thick parka hood, was being a total whore. Once upon a time, Craig _might_ have taken him up on the offer, if only to relieve some tension.

But he wasn’t _that_ desperate.

Some part of Craig wanted Stoley to take the table instead, but one look back at Randy Marsh told him to just deal. Randy monologued to Stoley about the ideals of a good weed empire, while Stoley tried mopping the floor with some cheap rags.

Craig shook his head as he strolled toward the back booth. The Awful Foursome were the lesser of two evils in this case. Jesus Christ.

Marsh and Broflovski silenced in an instant, looking like they’d been searching for something to spread through the grapevine. Whatever. Not like Craig had anything to hide anyway.

McKormick only gave a curt nod. His hood was up, but not tied, so for once, he didn’t look like he was trying for some autoerotic asphyxiation bullshit or whatever; he had some grease stains on his already sweaty forehead.

Cartman, on the other hand, grinned. It was a sickly, sweet sort of grin that only made Craig want to smash a shot glass over his fat head. “Well, hell _ooooo_ ,” he drawled, propping an elbow on the table. He leaned his portly body into Broflovski, who seemed determined not to rise to the occasion for once. Broflovski only responded with a slight huff, tilting away toward Marsh. Maybe it was the poor lighting, but Craig _swore_ he saw a faint pink dust Marsh’s cheek. Whatever, who cared.

Craig kept his hand inside his apron pocket. Flipping them off would be pointless. “Are you ready to order?” he grit out through a clenched jaw.

“Why yes, uh…” Cartman paused, his beady eyes scanning Craig’s chest. “You don’t appear to be wearing a nametag, sir, but I don’t know what to call you.” He smiled sweetly again, folding hands on the table. “Then again, you’re a slave to the workforce, so I guess I’ll just call you ‘slave.’”

“You _know_ my name,” Craig snapped, not bothering to keep his voice down. Randy Marsh’s monologue was only growing louder anyway as he continued on, now ranting about the meth industry or some shit. “You’ve known me since _preschool_ , fatass.”

Cartman tapped a finger on his splotchy chin. Clearly, he was trying for a beard but couldn’t quite make it: the hair was much thicker in some areas than others, though all-around, he still looked like he’d glued pubes to his chin. “No, I don’t think so,” he finally said, after staring at the ceiling for far longer than necessary. His white T-shirt had a red stain near the collar, and though Craig could _assume_ it was marinara sauce, he wasn’t going to ask.

Luckily, Broflovski cut in. He ran a hand over the top of his frizzy ‘fro, smiling politely at the man who held the power to poison their drinks if need be. “I’ll take an apple martini, Craig,” he said.

Cartman turned toward him, eyebrows raised. “I see you’ve _finally_ gotten that gender reassignment surgery you’ve been vying after all these years.” He patted Broflovski’s shoulder, smiling like a proud father. “Good for you, Kyle. Or is it Monica now?”

“Hey, leave him alone, dude,” Marsh snapped, his flush growing more obvious. It was hard to tell if it was due to _anger_ or something deeper, but Craig really didn’t give a shit. As far as he was concerned, Stan Marsh was, without a doubt, the _dullest_ person he’d ever met. Even _Randy_ Marsh _,_ with all his faults, at _least_ had a personality. Many of Stan’s problems stemmed from being a goddamn pussy.

“Scotch on the rocks,” McKormick said, his eyes on his cheap-ass flip phone. He also seemed determined to stay out of it for once and, in a way, Craig could appreciate that. It certainly helped cement his status as the least annoying member.

“The fuck’s your problem, Stan?” Cartman asked. He leaned over to get a good look at Marsh, his pudgy body jetting the table slightly outward. “You pissed that your girlfriend got the surgery without asking? Well, maybe now you can help Monica finally get that sand outta her vagina.”

McKormick and Broflovski remained silent as Cartman and Marsh continued engaging in their pointless argument about nothing.

Eventually, Craig stopped listening because their whiny voices were all white noise anyway, but he didn’t move. Because he _knew_ what would _happen_ if he moved. Eventually, Cartman would moan, _‘I want mah curly fries!’_ and start banging on the tiny table, snapping it in two with sheer force of his fatass arms. And _that_ would, of _course_ , come out of Craig’s already pathetic excuse of a paycheck.

But then again, if he _stayed_ , he’d have to deal with Cartman calling him out for eavesdropping. Not that there was much _to_ eavesdrop _on_ , but still. In any case, Cartman would call him a ‘no good, dirty, hippie, Jew’ and still wind up breaking the table.

The table’s life wasn’t secure in any case.

Between the two alternatives though, Craig preferred the one where he walked away. Listening to them _talk_ was bad enough; listening to them _argue_ was just exhausting. Marsh seemed resolute to win their petty disagreement. His face was growing redder by the minute. Whatever they were bickering about must’ve been pretty fucking important.

Broflovski remained in his own silent world, his eyes focused on the appetizer menu; McCormick wasn’t much of a talker anyway, but got up anyway, his phone to his ear.

Craig left them to their own devices, his eyes on the ceiling. Before he could reach the bar, however, another voice stopped him. He flipped back around and groaned. Why? Just… why? Bebe fucking Stevens was sitting near Randy Marsh’s table, smiling like the goddamn Cheshire cat.

“Hello, Craig,” she said with a smile when he’d shuffled over. “How are things?”

“You ready to order?” he asked. Ignoring the formalities seemed best because the _last_ thing he wanted to do was serve his best friend’s stupid-ass, on-again, off-again girlfriend. Small talk wasn’t his thing to begin with, but having _her_ try it made him think of fulfilling his life-long dream of space travel. That way, he could jet off to space where he’d never have to see another human ever again.

He pulled his notepad and pen out of the apron pocket.

“Have you spoken with Clyde today?”

Craig sighed, hiding his face behind the pad. Dear. Fucking. Lord. “ _Why_ are you answering my questions with more questions?” he snapped. It _was_ a common thread in his life, to be _fair_ ; Clyde’s knack for _not_ questioning anything was just as big an issue as Tweek’s knack for questioning literally _everything_.

“I just don’t want there to be any hard feelings between us,” she said. When he lowered the notepad, she was smiling up at him, twisting a golden curl at the tip of her finger. Dark eyelashes fluttered against alabaster skin. And, upon further inspection, the top button of her blouse was unfastened, revealing her tits. Either she wasn’t wearing a bra, or she just wasn’t wearing the right _sized_ bra. Not that Craig gave two shits either anyway.

“You do know I’m _gay_ , right?” he deadpanned, looking straight at her face. “As in, I like _dudes_. You’re clearly not a dude.”

Her smile vanished in an instant and she quickly rebuttoned her shirt. “So are you and Clyde –”

“Oh, _god,_ no.” A bad taste appeared in his mouth; it sort of resembled rank tacos. He stuck his tongue out in disgust. “Fuck that noise, lady. You never have to worry about me hitting on your boyfriend.”

To her credit, Bebe seemed pleased. She continued twirling the hair on her finger, leaving Craig to wonder why this conversation wasn’t ending. “Oh, right,” she eventually said with a serene smile, “I forgot all about that. You’re dating Tweek, right?”

Craig almost dropped the notepad. His hands trembled so he stuck them in the apron pocket, hoping to at least keep his voice level. Not that the hot flush working its way up his neck helped anything. Quickly, he shook his head, hoping to not seem like _too_ much of a two-faced liar. “Uh, no,” he said, glancing back at the Awful Foursome; Marsh and Cartman were still arguing amongst themselves, leaving Broflovski to only sigh and play with his phone. “That was in, like, fourth grade and we only did it ‘cause of the whole yaoi thing. I’ve never liked Tweek like _that_.”

Bebe stared, a small smile at the corner of her mouth. She hummed thoughtfully. “I see. Well, in that case,” she said, briefly flipping through the drink menu, “I’ll take a cosmo.”

Craig stormed to the backroom as quick as he could without looking like he was _trying_ to escape. How the fuck did _everyone_ seem to know? Shit.

~ ~ ~

When Craig eventually made it home – after yet around round of fighting off drunk, middle-aged whores who didn’t seem to understand the whole “yep, I’m gay” thing – he was tackled. Luckily, his bag was full enough to somewhat cushion the blow, but it still hurt. Like, a lot. At first, he wondered if it was Tweek since he seemed to cling to Craig a lot. Like, a _lot_ lot.

In some ways, Craig loved this, and he would relish the feeling of having his ex in his arms; in other ways, he speculated if he only existed to give the universe something to laugh at.

However, this idea was debunked when he noticed Tweek standing some ten feet away, looking like he was afraid to draw nearer. For once, Craig had to thank the universe; he was wearing his too-tight jeans that some idiot (Clyde) shrunk in the wash and the friction from the denim was bad enough. He didn’t even want to think what would’ve happened if it _had_ been – whatever. Unimportant.

When he tuned back to the real world, two things occurred to him: One, that the front of his cotton tee was growing progressively wetter by the second. And two, the wailing sound currently piercing his ears was in fact _not_ from his own demented mind; it was from Clyde. Clyde had his arms snaked around Craig’s backside as he sobbed into his chest. 

“What the – get. Off. Me.” Craig attempted to push him off, to no avail: Clyde only clung tighter and cried harder. “Please, dude. Get off and tell me what’s wrong.” He wasn’t attracted to Clyde by any stretch of the imagination, but the friction would make it _seem_ like he was, and he was _not_ ready to play twenty-questions.

_Especially_ with Tweek in the same room.

Between wheezing breaths, Clyde managed to choke out, “B-bebe…”

“Bebe…?” Craig sighed.

“She broke up with him,” Tweek said in a small voice. The ‘again’ was left unsaid.

Craig sent him a look that he hoped conveyed, ‘please get him off of me because this is getting awkward’; thankfully, Tweek seemed to understand the unspoken words as he gently grabbed hold of Clyde’s outward arm and pulled him up. 

Clyde allowed this, though he still latched onto Craig like a fuckin’ leech the second he was able to stand. He still sobbed into Craig’s chest. Despite his throbbing head, Craig did feel a pang of sympathy; idiot or not, Clyde was still his friend and he wasn’t _that_ big an asshole.

“I was wondering why she was in the bar today,” he mused, absently rubbing Clyde’s back.

Clyde ceased crying long enough to ask, “she was there?” His voice was thick, and his eyes swam with more unshed tears, but at least he didn’t sound like a wailing banshee anymore.

“Uh, yeah.”

Clyde took a step back, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his pajama shirt. “What’d she want?”

For a moment, Craig fumbled for words because mentioning her comment about Tweek was _not_ a discussion he was keen on having. So, he only said, “Well, she hit on me, for one.”

Clyde’s brow crinkled. “Doesn’t she know you’re gay?”

“Apparently not,” Craig said with a shrug. He chanced a glance at Tweek, though Tweek wasn’t even paying attention. His eyes were wide and mouth ajar. When Craig and Clyde only looked at him questioningly, he held out his phone, wordlessly. Whatever it was apparently rendered him speechless which was no easy task.

Craig took it and skimmed the page, immediately wishing he hadn’t. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me, dude,” he muttered. He sort of felt like he’d drank a nauseous cocktail of anger and sympathy. Not a good combo. When Clyde tried reading over his shoulder, he quickly tossed the cell back to Tweek. Fuck that noise. Clyde had already reached his crying quota for the day as far as he was concerned; no need to break the sound barrier. 

Unfortunately, Clyde snatched the phone straight out of Tweek’s hands. Craig winced and he covered his ears, preparing for another round of wails. He watched as Clyde’s face crumpled, and he handed Tweek’s phone back. For a split second, Craig thought they might be in the clear, that he and Tweek would be able to pull Clyde out of this mess.

But no.

Clyde sank to his knees, curling in on himself. His tears were going to start a flood at this rate. _Or_ the neighbors were going to have them evicted for breaking the fucking sound barrier. In the middle of fucking December. Eviction was _not_ in Craig’s repertoire of wants, _especially_ in the middle of fucking December.

He wasn’t keen on the idea of sleeping in his already shoddy-ass car.

Idly, he wondered if living here was even worth the trouble. Though going back to his parents’ wasn’t an option anyway, since they’d turned his room into a personal gym. And he was _not_ about to go stay with Token and Nichole. Staying with the nauseatingly sweet, lovey-dovey couple would be nothing more than a sick reminder of his own relationship status. As in, there _wasn’t_ one, unless he included his dick and his right hand.

Which he didn’t.

So, sighing to himself, he knelt next to his friend. “Dude, you gotta calm down,” he said, reaching for Clyde’s arm in a thinly veiled attempt to stop the impending flood.

Clyde batted his hand away. “But _B-bebe!_ ”

“Dude, she’s a whore.” Craig’s patience was waning and _fast_ , but this would be worth it. It would be _so_ worth it. He couldn’t live with his parents, and he _wouldn’t_ live with the Power Couple. "She updated her status already, like what the _hell?_ She could have at least waited a day or two, so you didn't look like a total moron.” 

Not that he considered Facebook relationship statuses exactly _important,_ but still. Bebe updating hers to ‘single’ for the fiftieth time this month, _especially_ when her profile pic had Clyde _in_ it, was a low blow.

_“Plus, s_ he fucking _hit_ on me,” he added.

“Yeah,” Tweek said. He knelt next to Craig, pressing his bare arm into Craig’s side. Whether it was by accident or not – though it probably was – Craig’s breath still hitched in his throat. How pathetic _was_ he? Not for the first time – not for the first time by a _long_ shot – his head swam with unspoken confessions; ten years to work on this shit and here he was, acting like a twelve-year-old girl. Jesus Christ.

He only came back around when Tweek said, “hey, man, if she’s desperate enough to hit on _Craig_ , she’s not worth it.” His tone was level, nothing out of the ordinary, but the comment still stung. Even though Craig _knew_ it was probably only because he was _gay_ , not because he was… well, himself.

“Yeah,” he muttered, scratching his head. He really needed to find his hat. “She hit on a _gay_ guy, dude. That’s desperation right there.” He avoided looking at Tweek, though made no attempt to move his arm. His body was a cesspool of nerves and butterflies and everything he _didn’t_ need. As kids, Tweek had also claimed to be gay, though that was probably only for show. He’d never disclosed his sexuality since and Craig had never been brave enough to ask.

“So it’s not m-my fault?” Clyde asked. He wiped his snot-dripped nose on his sleeve. Gross.

“No,” Craig and Tweek said in tandem.

Clyde paused, glancing down at his feet. He still looked like he was fighting an urge to burst into tears again, but offered a watery smile. “We’ll prob’bly be back together by Christmas anyway, right?”

Craig buried his face in his hands. Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ. The fuck. _Why_ did he insist on hanging out with Clyde again? _Why, why, why._ Clyde-I’m-gonna-fuck-a-whore-Donovan. Clyde-I’m-gonna-play-guitar-hero-at-two-A.M.-and-piss-off-my-best-friend-Donovan.

It took him several seconds to regain the ability to _not_ punch something.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me, dude,” he said, uncovering his face once most of his anger had dispersed. He kept his eyes focused on directly on Clyde, trying to blur Tweek into the background. It didn’t really work since he _knew_ Tweek’s eyes were also on him, but he pressed on, regardless.

Clyde held up a weak hand, his smile sliding away. “What’s –”

“Stop letting her walk all over you.” Craig flicked Clyde’s forehead with his finger. It hardly registered since Clyde didn’t really respond; he only lowered his hand and furrowed his brow like he’d been asked to provide proof of being human.

Apparently, the hamster living in his head wasn’t running on the wheel anymore.

“Bebe is _not_ worth this shit.” Craig glanced at Tweek, whose eyes were firmly on Clyde. When Tweek did happen to return the gaze, he offered Craig a small smile, nodding in firm approval. Craig temporarily felt lighter, his heart swelling with emotion, but he shook it off just as quick. Now was not the time to go all middle school and all that bullshit. Besides, the throbbing pain in the back of his head was a good reminder of where he _really_ was in life. 

“C’mon, Clyde,” Tweek said, patting his shoulder. “Craig’s right. Just forget about her.”

The words apparently struck their own painful chord as Clyde’s bottom lip started trembling again. “B-but I love her,” he whispered, shuffling his feet.

God-fucking-damnit.

“Dude, I’m telling you,” Craig said, grabbing Clyde firmly by the shoulders. He gazed deep into his eyes, trying to find some sign of life. Clyde’s dull brown eyes showed no intelligence, only a series of red rings along the outer edge. “Okay, so, _as_ your best friend – please, shut the fuck up. She’s _not_ worth your time, let alone your tears. You might love her _now_ , but in ten years, she’ll be a druggie with saggy tits.”

The mental image alone made his dick shrivel up. He winced, but continued. “Do you _want_ to date a druggie with saggy tits?”

Clyde seemed to consider this. He glanced at the ceiling. Then at the floor. Then at the television. He didn’t cry, but didn’t smile either. When he finally spoke – after Craig thought up far too many ways to beat some sense into the guy – Clyde only said, “… what if she gets implants?”

Craig stared blankly. The idea of repeatedly smacking his head into the nearest wall seemed viable. Granted, it wouldn’t have done a lot to help his throbbing headache, but at least he would get a nice nap out of it. He didn’t do that though. He only groaned, willingly looking to Tweek for a help. Desperate times called for desperate measures. 

Unfortunately, this little sacrifice did little to help: Tweek only shrugged. 

Craig groaned, dragging a clawed-hand down the length of his face. Goddamnit. “Fine,” he snapped, “if she gets implants, I’m sure you two will live happily ever fucking after.” With little effort, he brushed past the pair, stomping down the hall and slamming his bedroom door. The sound carried too easily in the thinly-walled apartment. The neighbors were sure to hear that, but who the fuck cared?  


Nothing fucking mattered anyway.


	3. Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for the obligatory intro for Stan. I noticed that this chapter was a lot shorter than the last one, but it gets the job done.

Days in South Park were rarely what he’d call ‘normal’ but Stan still considered today pretty fuckin’ weird.

Hanging out with the guys was fine (despite Cartman’s presence). Watching his intoxicated father yell at Craig Tucker was fine (since Craig was an asshole anyway). Listening to his father ramble to Kevin Stoley about his ever-growing weed empire was a little off-putting, but not exactly _weird_ , so that was fine, too. Getting into a fight with Cartman was, at its core, unsurprising.

But the fact that Kyle didn’t even _say_ anything was… weird. Especially since Stan fuckin’ _defended_ him. Defended him for getting an _apple martini_ , which was just about _the_ girliest drink on the face of the goddamn Earth.

That was _not_ fine.

Still, Stan _tried_ not to dwell. When Cartman eventually stopped ragging on them, no doubt growing bored of Kyle’s lack of interest, Stan took a long breath. He was almost thankful when Kenny returned, even though it made things all the more crowded.

Kyle kept leaning into him and though he _knew_ was _only_ due to lack of space – mostly thanks to Cartman’s ‘I need _mah_ space, you _gahs_ , it’s _mah_ lifestyle choice’ attitude – his stomach still turned whenever Kyle got _too_ close. He almost thought about just getting it over with and allow Kyle to lay on him, maybe put an arm around him, but that seemed a little too… coupley, for his taste.

He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about it as they piled back into Kyle’s car. He tried not to think about it when Kyle stormed off the moment they arrived back home. He couldn’t even get a word in edgewise before Kyle was back in his room, slamming the door.

“What the hell?”

Kenny and Cartman didn’t seem concerned. They sat on the sofa and switched on the sofa like everything was _fine_. Granted, it wasn’t like it was _uncommon_ for Kyle to be pissed. Usually at his mother or brother or Cartman, but there was no way he was _that_ mad about Cartman’s comments. No way. The whole vagina thing wasn’t even _clever_. It was a literal rehash of shit Cartman had said in fuckin’ _fourth grade_.

“C’mon, Stan,” Kenny said, grabbing a controller and holding it out, “come play with us.” He smiled. Normally, Stan would’ve tried convincing them to play the PS4 instead, but he kept his mouth shut on that account. Some part of him missed the Game Sphere anyway.

Console wars were so overrated.

He cast a sidelong glance at the vacant hallway. Kyle’s room was eerily silent which couldn’t mean anything good.

Cartman scoffed. “ _Puh-lease,_ the hippie’s a _Sony_ fanboy. He doesn’t appreciate Microsoft’s _superiority.”_

“We could play the Playstation if you want,” Kenny offered with a toothy grin. He patted the center cushion.

“But _Kiiinny!”_ Cartman bounced in his seat, shaking his controller in Kenny’s face, “The X-Box One has seamless transition between movies and _gaaaames!”_

Kenny only leaned away, handing his own controller to Stan. “Here,” he said with another smile, “I’ll go talk to Kyle. Just kick Eric’s ass for me, m’kay?” He jumped up, strolling toward the hall with a literal _bounce_ in his step.

The dude’s happiness almost seemed unwarranted, but damned if Stan was going to ruin that for him. It wasn’t like he ever mentioned much about his personal life to the guys anyway. Except to sometimes brag about his latest superhero mission, but the last one was _months_ prior. (At least the ones he _told_ them about.)

Stan didn’t move at first. He stood in place, staring blankly at Kenny’s vacant seat, somewhat feeling like someone had taken a hose and drenched him in icy water. Absently he toyed with the controller, tossing it between hands. When Cartman made some lewd comment about “Kyle’s panties being in a twist,” or something equally uncreative and lame, he heard himself say, “shut the fuck up, fatass,” without a second thought.

They really had become predictable.

In a panic, however, he lunged forward and yanked Kenny back by his worn hood.

Kenny twirled back around, nearly toppling over, but he kept his balance. Wordlessly, he raised his eyebrows, motioning toward the hall with a slight nod.

Stan swallowed in a futile attempt to soothe his dry throat. It didn’t work. If anything, it only made it scratchy, like little strands of hay had somehow lodged themselves in his esophagus. When he managed to speak, he was pretty sure he sounded like he was just learning human speech. “Just – I dunno. Just leave it. _I’ll_ talk to Kyle. If anyone should, it’s me. No offense, dude, but _I’m_ his best f-friend.”

“His _super_ best friend,” Kenny whispered with a smirk.

“Shut the –” Stan violently shook his head, hoping the warmth spreading along his cheeks was due to the heater. The scratchy feeling in his throat must have only meant he was getting sick. Right? Right. Nothing else.

When Cartman made some quip about them being gay or whatever, he could only manage a weak glare. His stomach lurched. Eating bar food – especially from _Skeeter’s_ – was not a good idea, and it would never _be_ a good idea. Stan had used the curly fries and onion rings as a distraction from Kyle’s stupid ‘leaning into him’ thing, scarfing them down while Cartman made snide, tactless remarks about Bebe being a whore.

(Which, to be fair, she’d tried hitting on _Craig_ on more than one occasion. Even if Craig _weren’t_ gay, the dude probably had higher standards.)

Kenny didn’t even spare Cartman a glance. He only frowned, slowly making his way back to the couch. He only somewhat counterbalanced the weight. Kenny wasn’t as skinny as he’d been as a kid, but the sofa was still going to inevitably tilt toward Cartman’s end. “Alright, Stan,” he said, “Just – I dunno, yell if you need anything.”

“Y’know,” Cartman broke in, finally hitting a button on his controller to exit the menu screen, “if you queermos need some tips on practicing safe sex, I’m sure Man Whore McGee here could give you some pointers; he knows all about taking it up the ass.”

“At least I’ve _had_ sex,” Kenny said, not missing a beat.

“Ay!” Cartman bristled, getting to his feet. He leaned in close to Kenny’s face, beady eyes narrow. “I’m not some blushing virgin, _Kinny_. I’ve had sex. I’ve had _tons_ of sex. I’ve had loads more than –”

Kenny didn’t even blink, his eyes half-mast. “Sit down, asshole.”

“Fuck you!”

“And please, do the world a favor and brush your teeth.” Kenny hit another button on his controller, glancing over as Cartman took his seat again. His nose crinkled. “Your breath is fuckin’ rank, bro.”

“Oh, like _you’re_ one to talk, po’ boy,” Cartman sneered, leaning an elbow on the arm of the sofa, his eyes still on the TV. “I’ll bet you don’t even _own_ a toothbrush.”

“At least _I_ know how to use mouthwash every once in a while.”

“That’s like ten bucks. How the fuck did you afford _mouthwash_? Your _boyfriend_ buy you some?”

A scatter of rosy-pink dotted Kenny’s already freckled face and his eyes widened. Just a tad. But he only muttered a small, “Just fuckin’ hit start, dickhead,” and resumed staring at the television, his shoulders hunched.

Cartman smirked as he turned back to the game. Personally, Stan thought it was a hollow victory since it wasn’t like Kenny’s sexuality was kept under lock and key. Half the town knew the guy swung _all_ ways, and no one cared. At least no one who _mattered_. In any case, even if no one else knew, it was Kenny’s business and no one else’s, as far as Stan was concerned.

He made a half-hearted mental note to ask Kenny about it later.

With faux confidence, keeping his head held high, Stan strolled to Kyle’s door and knocked.

There was no reply. Some part of him was relieved because it wasn’t like he had a game plan anyway. He could hardly talk to _Kenny_ without stuttering; Kyle was a whole other ballgame. He glanced back at the sofa.

Kenny was already staring at him, his eyebrows furrowed in a way Stan took to mean, ‘try again.’

Shit.

Stan took a deep breath, trying to fill his lungs with some _true_ confidence. It really didn’t work. He still felt jittery, like he was all hopped up on caffeine or something; his stomach was also churning which either meant that the bar food wasn’t settling like it should, or –

The door suddenly flew open and he took a step back, his heart jumping. Kyle stood in the doorway, staring him down. Or at least trying. Stan was almost half a foot taller, but Kyle’s level stare still did funny things to his already flip-flopping insides, so he felt like the smaller one.

“What?” Kyle groused, folding his arms. 

“Uh…” Stan scratched the back of his neck. Seriously, what the hell was he _supposed_ to say? His ex was always telling him that he sucked at emotions; she was clearly right. Half the time, he had a hard time even calling Kyle his ‘best friend’ to begin with; the term felt heavy, too important to use in casual conversation because _Kyle_ was too important to talk about so casually. Kyle was his rock, to be honest (as gay as that sounded).

A thin layer of sweat lined his forehead, so he took off his hat, tossing it callously behind him.

“I just wanted to know if – um… if you were… o-okay?” he said, the words coming out thick, almost slurred. If he knew he hadn’t been drinking, he would’ve thought he was intoxicated.

Kyle didn’t shut the door, but his expression didn’t change either. He still stared up at Stan, his eyes half-mast. If he intended to actually answer the question, Stan wasn’t able to find out: A crash settled somewhere behind them, and Kyle took a long step forward, leaning around Stan to get a good look. His face drew into a scowl.

It sounded like shattering glass, so Stan assumed that it had to do with their coffee table, but really, who cared? His heart was beating too erratically, the sound of rushing blood in his ears drowning all else. He swallowed, almost thankful for the break. He was going to bang his head into the nearest wall if he had to stand there much longer, stuttering like a fucking moron.

He stared into the dark room for far longer than necessary. The computer in the corner was the only source of light, the screen saver illuminating the room in turquoise.

“Stan, a little help here?”

Hearing Kenny say his name somehow snapped him out of… whatever the fuck. He shook his head, trying to clear the jumbled thoughts and feelings. Flipping around only served to show what sort of people he chose to hang out with: Cartman sat on the carpet, his hands splayed out behind him as he tried desperately to turn his fat head; Kyle had a hand on Cartman’s coat collar, the other clenched in a tight fist behind him; and Kenny had one hand around Kyle’s raised wrist, the other wrapped around Kyle’s waist.

All in all, Stan’s only thought was, _what the fuck is wrong with my friends?_ He didn’t intervene. He only watched as the scene unfolded and everything seemed to move in slow motion: He didn’t intervene when Kenny eventually lost his grip on Kyle’s wrist. Or when Kyle clocked Cartman straight upside the mouth, knocking the fatass sideways.

Kenny tightened his grasp on Kyle’s waist, yanking him off Cartman as Kyle kicked and flailed at the open air. Although Kenny was still skinny, he was still several inches taller than Kyle, which gave him an easy advantage.

“ _Let me go, Kenny!”_

“Kyle, what the _fuck_?” Cartman exclaimed, his eyes wide. He scrambled to the sofa, holding his chin.

“You _deserved_ it, asshole!”

“But _Kahhhhl_ , I’m bleeding!”

“I don’t fucking care.”

“Dude, you’re not fucking bleeding.”

“Shut up, Kinny. I hate you.”

Kyle’s auburn hair was wild as he bristled; it curled around his eyes, accentuating their murderous intent. And, of course, the color. They were olive green and, as gay as he knew it made him sound, Stan had always thought Kyle’s eyes were… nice. Red hair and green eyes looked nice.

Already heavy with the weight of shitty bar food, Stan’s stomach lurched. “Goddamnit,” he muttered, squeezing his own eyes shut. He turned away from the others as their fight grew more intense.

It was nothing new anyway; Kyle and Cartman were yelling at one another as Kenny tried to tear the two apart. Same old shit. Still, he _did_ feel slightly compelled to stop Kyle from sending Cartman to an early grave. (At the _very_ least to avoid police interference. The police weren’t just assholes; they were _annoying_ assholes.)

But just turning back around proved impossible.

His stomach turned. It was a familiar feeling, almost dizzying. The food needed out and it needed out _now_. He stumbled to the kitchen, arms wrapped around his middle. The trashcan was too far away. He fell to his knees. His mouth was a rancid wasteland as large chunks of onion rings spewed all over the linoleum floor. Fucking weak.

“Dude,” he mumbled, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

None of his friends came to see if he was okay. Not that he expected it. Honestly, he preferred that. He wasn’t exactly keen on his friends seeing him covered in his own vomit. Especially Kyle. _God_ , not Kyle; he would’ve never heard the end of it. For a split second, he considered blocking the entrance to the kitchen, but the sound of scuffling in the living room stopped him. They wouldn’t notice anyway.

For the time being, lying on the ground seemed the better option.

~ ~ ~

“Dude, I don’t _know!”_

When Kenny sighed, his cheap flip-phone made everything all staticky. Wincing, Stan held the phone at arm’s length until the sound subsided. He knew calling Kenny wasn’t a good idea. Not that he didn’t _like_ Kenny. Of course, he did – the dude was one of his best friends. He could talk to him about _anything._

For the most part.

Except this.

This was just… awkward. Stan felt his resolve die a little more with every word he spoke. Because although Kenny was trustworthy and all, he wasn’t above teasing.

“So, do you need to see a… doctor, or something?” Kenny flippantly asked. He sounded like he needed this conversation to end and soon. To be fair, they _had_ been on the phone for, like, an hour; he probably didn’t have too many minutes to spare. The guy probably also had other things to do other than listen to Stan bitch and moan about feeling sick.

“I don’t think so?” Stan flopped back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Under the guise of the dying light, the starlight stickers around the room began to glow. Kyle and Kenny had helped him put them up a week prior; they were a nice, simple decoration, even if a little childish. Of course, getting up and turning on the light would’ve made more sense, but lying here seemed the more viable option. Plus, his stomach still hurt.

“I was wondering where you’d gone.”

“Yeah, puking.” Stan draped an arm over his eyes. There was a sort of shuffling outside his door. It was definitely Kyle since Sparky II was staying with his parents for the time being. (Something about dad needing protection from his asshole friends, even though Sparky II was about as aggressive as a fucking bunny.) This little tidbit of info didn’t make Stan’s stomach feel any better.

“Look, Stan – what the fuck. Oh, Jesus Christ. _Now?”_ Kenny groaned. The static grew louder, but Stan didn’t bother moving his arm this time. “I’ll come over tomorrow, dude. I promise. I just – Jesus Christ. Bye, Stan.”

The line died.

Stan still didn’t move his arm, even as the dial tone sounded in his ear. He only shut his eyes. Sometimes, he almost wished that Kenny lived with them. Living with Kyle wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Having Kenny around, just as a segue, might have made things less weird.

Just a little, anyway.

~ ~ ~

Stan wasn’t surprised when Kyle confronted him a few hours later. He was more confused that Kyle confronted him at two in the goddamn morning when all he really wanted to do was use the fucking bathroom. The hallway was dark, the curtains in the living room drawn, so it wasn’t like he even saw the guy right away; he popped up out of nowhere.

“So… are you okay?” Kyle flipped the hallway light on.

Stan jumped, his hand flying to his chest. His heart skipped several beats which was probably detrimental to his health; maybe he should have just been like Kenny and taken up smoking. At least he could die slowly from the inside-out.

“Are _you_ okay?” he weakly retorted. His legs shook, shattering any illusion of exasperation he was trying to pass off.

Kyle shrugged one shoulder. He folded his arms and rested against the doorframe, effectively blocking Stan’s entrance to the bathroom. Which was about the _only_ place he felt like going. And not just because he had to pee; the bathroom was a _sanctuary_. It was the only place in the whole goddamn apartment that Kyle couldn’t follow.

Kyle’s untamed hair made him look like he only just rolled out of bed with the sole purpose of being an annoyance. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Y’know, just Cartman being an ass,” he muttered.

“Nothing you’re not used to,” Stan bit back. He only realized how bitter he sounded when Kyle winced. His emptied stomach churned, though it wasn’t like there was anything in there. He’d already spewed his lunch all over the kitchen floor; Still, he swallowed; the bile rising in his throat didn’t subside.

Kyle scratched the back of his neck, his expression softening. “Stan, I’m sorry. I just… Cartman made some comment about – I guess I took my mood out on you and Ken. So, I’m sorry.”

Stan’s heart couldn’t beat much faster; he ran a hand through his already mussed hair, trying to appear nonchalant. Judging by Kyle’s eyebrows raising to meet his hairline, it didn’t work. Still, he pressed on, “What did he –”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Just about our shitty jobs. Nothing new.”

Stan chuckled shakily, almost hysterically, as relief flooded through him. This was good, this was _good_. It could have been a lot worse. “Like he’s one to talk,” he said with a wide grin. “He still lives with his _mom_.”

When Kyle laughed, his whole face seemed to glow, even under the cover of darkness. His nose scrunched up and eyes grew bright. It was – it was enough to make Stan’s stomach fucking... his stomach _fluttered._ Like there were goddamn butterflies living in it or something. Oh, no. No, no, noooo –

Pushing past him, Stan made a beeline for the toilet. It racked his entire body as his stomach contracted, trying to force _something_ out. Nothing came out except a bit of saliva, but Jesus fuck. His abs were going to fucking hurt like hell tomorrow.

“I _told_ you not to get the curly fries,” Kyle said, sounding eerily like his ex-girlfriend. It was almost creepy.

Over his shoulder, Stan lazily flipped the bird. He rested his head on the toilet seat. The cool ceramic felt nice, but he remembered too easily that he had his head on a _toilet_. Gross. Still, he didn’t lift his head, and didn’t even bother opening his eyes.

“I’m going back to bed,” Kyle muttered, shutting the door behind him.

Stan couldn’t gather the energy to stop him.

~ ~ ~

Waking with a jolt in the middle of the night was the epitome of annoying. It took Stan several seconds to realize _why_ and when he did, he flopped back down. The bedside clock read 3:03 A.M.

“Ken, I swear to god…”

It was always at least a _bit_ of a shock to see a full-grown man wearing purple spandex and tighty-whiteys. For Stan, it was only _really_ a shock because Mysterion always chose to perch himself on the windowsill like a lame-ass Batman knock-off. Of course, he couldn’t just use the front door like a fucking human being. Not that it was anything _new_ ; half the time, Kenny opted to break-in through the kitchen window to give Stan and/or Kyle a goddamn heart attack.

“Hey, you said you wanted to talk,” Ken – Mysterion – said, his voice gruff. He dropped inside, reminding Stan to start locking the window.

“Yeah, I meant at, like, noon,” Stan grumbled.

“Look, Stan,” Mysterion said with a sigh, “you said you wanted to talk, so I’m here to listen. I’ve only got a few minutes, so tell me what the fuck is wrong.” He dropped the cowl. Bits of blood streaked his left-hand cheek. It was nothing new, so Stan didn’t bother asking. Besides, the life of a superhero was long and strenuous; it was part of why he didn’t act as Toolshed anymore.

(Plus, his dad wanted his power drill back.) 

Stan groaned. “Alright, so I – I don’t know, man. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“Is it about _Kyle_?” Mysterion asked, sitting at the foot of the bed. He wiped his cheek with the backside of his hand, staining the glove a deep red. Stan really did want to ask what happened, but there were more important things at hand; like… whatever the hell he was feeling.

“Is it that obvious?” he bit out, glancing at his bedroom door. Kyle probably didn’t hang around the hallway, listening to Stan all night or whatever, but noise still carried. It carried a little too well through these thin walls (as he’d discovered one night when Wendy was over). He briefly considered taking the conversation outside, but that would have required getting dressed and he wasn’t going to put on a winter jacket and snow pants at three in the morning. 

“Dude –” Kenny dropped the act – as in stopped with the shitty Batman impression – and took off the mask. He was smirking. It was subtle but noticeable enough to send Stan’s heart into a frenzy. Because _obviously,_ he – fuck.

“I just…” Stan dropped his head to his hands, threading his fingers through his hair. He needed a shower because the smell of rancid onion rings still lingered. Or maybe that was just the bad taste in his mouth. Who knew? “I just – Kyle is, like and I’m like… I – I just feel _weird_ , okay?” Words were hard.

When he, against his better judgment, found the courage to lift his head, Kenny was staring at him oddly. There was a sort of… twinkle in his eye that paired far too well with his stupid, fucking smirk. It was really weird to see him smirk, though because from the neck down, he was still dressed as Mysterion. His alter-ego was Mr. Serious. Kenny McCormick was decidedly… not.

“Please, no.” Stan grabbed a fist-full of his own hair and tugged. It did little to quell the nausea brewing in his stomach, but it served as a good distraction. Momentarily. Sort of. A few strands ripped straight out; he winced.

“My dear, Marsh,” Kenny said, shaking his head in a sort of ‘you’re so stupid’ way, “I think you know what’s going on.”

Stan glanced at his bedroom door again. Seriously, if Kyle heard _any_ of this, he’d never hear the end of it. He’d start packing right now and start a new life. Canada seemed nice. The fact that he couldn’t hear Kyle snoring was… concerning, but then again, his own hammering heart clouded almost everything. He swallowed, hard, adding to the rising bile in his throat.

Kenny set the mask back, though his wide grin remained. “Just face the facts, dude. You’re gay.”

“ _Dude!”_ Stan hid his face in his hands. “ _No_. I like _girls_. Girls only.”

“Okay, whatever, man.” Kenny audibly clicked his tongue. When Stan gathered the courage to uncover his face – also against his better judgment – Mysterion was fully back, one leg already hanging out the open window. Wintery winds blew snowflakes inside the already cooling room, gathering in a pile by the computer desk. “You’re _totally_ straight.”

Before Stan could even nod as confirmation – because if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was fucking _gay_ – Mysterion added, “you’re just gay for your best friend.” He dropped outside without a second glance.

Stan sat in silence, mouth ajar. The only sounds were from December’s blustery winds outside the open window and his own beating heart.


	4. Craig

Craig Tucker hated a lot of things.

First and foremost, he hated his job because Skeeter was a total homophobic asshat and Kevin Stoley was a spineless tattletale.

He hated his car because it was older than shit and the brakes fuckin’ squeaked like there were mice hiding in the engine or some shit. There weren’t, for the record. (Tweek made him check.)

But mostly… mostly he just hated his own feelings. He understood his stupid _feelings_ far too well. The stoic façade was just that: A façade. He was far too aware for his own good. Namely about his feelings for Tweek. Breaking things off with the little spaz seemed so fucking simple. It was so easy to push their so-called ‘romance’ to the side and pretend that it never happened. They didn’t date for _that_ long, anyway.

The city’s interest in their relationship dwindled and Craig and Tweek’s fifteen months of fame finally tapered off sometime during sixth grade. It left Craig feeling like they were carrying on a façade for no reason because if the town didn’t care, why should _he_?

Sure, Craig liked Tweek well enough; the guy was one of his best friends, but he didn’t _like-like_ Tweek. He never imagined kissing him or anything.

Clyde, Token and Jimmy seemed _far_ too convinced that the ploy _was_ genuine. Which was annoying. The most Craig and Tweek had ever done was hold hands, and even that was only the watchful public eye. Honestly, no one had any reason to believe the scheme, much less their _best friends,_ but they did anyway.

Or at least Clyde did, but Clyde apparently ‘shipped’ them anyway; the guy was always ranting and raving about ‘Creek’ or whatever. Fuckin’ weirdo.

Either way, they broke it off easily. (Clyde cried when he found out, but then again, the guy cried about everything.)

It was really fucking euphoric, really, not having to _pretend_ anymore. Carrying on the act was _exhausting_. He and Tweek could finally just be normal friends who did normal things. They could just hang with the guys and play video games and superheroes and whatever else. (Though they did have about a week where they had to pretend to be ‘sad’ and blah, blah, blah.)

Everything was great. Everything was perfect.

Until seventh grade.

Fuck seventh grade.

For about a year, Craig remained blissfully ignorant. Sure, he did feel an _occasional_ flicker of envy when it came to Tweek, but he figured that it was just a best friend thing. It was _normal_ to be jealous of your best friend turning to _someone else_ when you’d gotten so used to him turning to _you_. Tweek began turning to Clyde or Token for help whenever he had a nightmare or whatever, but they were _all_ best friends, anyway. Craig would _eventually_ hear all about it. Thinking that he could have Tweek all to himself was fuckin’ weird.

So, he brushed the feelings aside.

Still, jealousy was inevitable when the _girls_ joined. He spent half the year silently seething whenever the _girls_ joined them because girls were _weird._

Token had Nichole, Clyde had Bebe, Jimmy had whatever Whore of the Week he could conjure up, Craig was about in the same boat as Jimmy, though Tweek? Tweek had this chick named… Rebecca? She spent far too much time clinging to Tweek like he was her pimp or something.

Even when Craig _did_ manage to find a girlfriend – Sarah? – he hardly paid mind. He spent most of the year wondering, “dude, do I have a crush on Tweek’s girlfriend?” He certainly spent a lot of time spying on them. He’d spy on them at lunch, at recess, in class, walking home together – everywhere. She was definitely pretty, too: Black hair, green eyes – a nice combo of features. Nice enough, too, though sometimes it was hard to tell if she was faking her niceness or not. Whatever.

But were they _dating_? It was hard to say. She and Tweek never held hands. They spent most of the year together, though. Sometimes he even fuckin’ ditched his bros to go hang with _her_.

Once again though, Craig brushed – or at least _tried_ to brush – his jealousy aside because Tweek was his best friend for Christ’s sake. He should have been _happy_ that Tweek found someone. But the thing about it was, he didn’t even really look at _Rebecca_ much; she _was_ cute, sure, but he hardly noticed. Really, he found his eyes drawn to Tweek; he seemed calmer when _she_ was around. Less fidgety.

Seeing Tweek so… normal, was just _weird_.

And then, near the end of the year, _it_ happened. Craig was sitting in the cafeteria with Clyde, Token and Jimmy, absently picking at his food. He was really watching Tweek and Rebecca out of the corner of his eye because of _course_ , Tweek didn’t want to sit with his best friends or anything. Of _course_. Even Clyde and Token gave _their_ girlfriends some space. But not Tweek. Nope.

Craig looked away for a moment to respond to some shit Clyde or Jimmy said when he heard it: She fucking made Tweek _laugh_. Tweek never _laughed_. The dude was too big a paranoid spaz to fuckin’ _laugh_ at anything. He smiled, sure, but laughing? Nope. Craig looked over and sure enough, Tweek was fuckin’ doubled over in his seat, food forgotten.

Craig froze. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

He stared at the pair, ignoring his other friends altogether. He was pretty sure Clyde huffed and whined to Token about something, but who _cared_? Craig couldn’t tear his eyes away. He watched his stupid ex laugh hysterically at something some random _chick_ said.

Tweek never laughed at anything _Craig_ said and they fucking _dated_ for over a year. Fuck, they’d been friends since preschool and here, some chick was stealing his thunder. He and Tweek smiled at one another on occasion, but Tweek seemed to think that Craig was gonna punch him half the time. He always seemed so nervous, like anything he said would set Craig off.

Which it _didn’t_ , for the record.

(Craig never understood that, honestly; he was too big a fuckin’ nerd to be a bully, for Christ’s sake. Not that anyone outside of his inner circle _knew_ that.)

He didn’t even notice how hard he was clenching his fists until his plastic fork snapped clean in two.

Clyde or Token or fuck, maybe Jimmy? One of them anyway asked if he was okay and he found himself mumbling, “yes.” He had no appetite to begin with, but seeing Tweek laugh with some _girl_ was just… what the fuck. His stomach hurt.

Nothing was okay after that. Nothing. He found himself staring at Tweek more closely, his eyes carefully tracing Tweek's features when Tweek’s attention was elsewhere. Which it often was. Tweek’s nose crinkled when he laughed; his freckles stood out under bright lights; and his eyes. Oh, his eyes, like, literally _sparkled_ under the morning sun when he met them at the bus stop.

Noticing all this shit fucking sucked. He tried really, really hard to ignore it all and to just think to himself, _‘guys can find other guys_ attractive _without literally being_ attracted _to them. Right? He’s my best friend and I just think he’s a good-looking dude. Nothing wrong with that.’_

Then one day, it just got worse. Tweek actually laughed at something _he_ said, and his heart stuttered. The air left his lungs, leaving him gaping like a fucking gay fish. (Emphasis on ‘gay’.) When he finally found his voice, he found himself laughing along, the sound hysterical even to his own ears. His ears burned as he ignored Token’s sidelong glance, and he was all-too grateful that Clyde and Jimmy were too preoccupied with their own shit to notice.

Tweek stopped laughing. “Are you okay, Craig?” His eyes were wide as he tilted his head. It. Was. Adorable. Ugh.

Craig’s mind momentarily short-circuited at the sight, but he quickly nodded as the hot flush migrated to the rest of his face. “Uh, y-yeah, bab – T-tweek. Tweek.” He spent the rest of the wait, staring at the ground and praying to whatever deity might have been listening that his ex hadn’t noticed the slip of tongue.

If Tweek did, he didn’t mention it.

When the bus arrived, he scrambled for a seat near the back, far, far away from his ex and his own unresolved feelings.

Fuck seventh grade, seriously.

~ ~ ~

“Sooo… have you talked to _him_?” Token said, very much sounding like he wanted this conversation to end. And _now_. He probably had Nichole over, as per the usual, so they could make sweet, sweet heterosexual love.

Gross.

Craig rolled his eyes. “Why the _fuck_ would I talk to _him_ about it?”

“Because you obviously never got closure.” Token clicked his tongue, like it was such a goddamn crisis to help one of his supposed best friends with a very, _very_ pressing issue.

“I didn’t _need_ closure. We ended things because it was all fake, anyway.” Craig glanced at the front door. Clyde would probably be home any minute now, though he was pretty sure Clyde knew. He’d never went out of his way to discuss his love life with his best friend, but not even Clyde could be _that_ oblivious. It wasn’t like Craig did a lot to hide his pathetic crush; fuck, Tweek himself probably had an _idea_ , even if he had never mentioned it.

Fuck.

Token heaved a heavy sigh. “Well, _yeah,_ but that was before you admitted to yourself that you’re in love with him.”

Craig groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Talking about this was useless. He didn’t need Token to fuckin’ tell him something that he already knew. Maybe telling _anyone_ was a mistake; maybe he should have kept the entire thing under wraps until he’d gathered enough funds to move out of Colorado and join NASA.

Only Token, Jimmy and Tricia knew about his stupid crush, but none of them seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. He fucking _lived_ with Tweek, for Christ’s sake, which fucking sucked because so much for the whole ‘out of sight, out of mind’ thing.

(Not that it was _his_ idea. Clyde offered Tweek the extra bedroom when Bebe moved out for the fifteenth time. Two. Years. Ago. The mix of emotions when Clyde announced that _Tweek_ , of all people, would be their new roommate almost made Craig want to fucking off himself, though he _was_ happy to be rid of Bebe. Sometimes, he was happy to be gay; girls were too complicated, man.)

“Have you tried just… I don’t know – finding someone else?”

“Uh, yeah,” Craig snapped, dead dropping his head on the back of the sofa. He shut his eyes. “I’ve tried to find someone else for ten goddamn years. And all it’s done is made me feel guilty for trying to begin with. It makes me feel like I’m cheating on him or some shit.”

“Dude.” Token took a long breath like he was about to say something of vital importance. Which he didn’t, really. All he said was, “I’m _pretty_ sure Tweek feels the same way about you, anyway.”

Though he tried to ignore the comment, Craig knew he couldn’t. He sighed, deeply. “Even if he _does_ – which I sincerely doubt – he’d probably be too goddamn paranoid about what the town would say.” South Park was far too obsessed with them when they were _ten_ ; who knew what would happen if they rekindled their relationship at twenty-three?

Chaos, that’s what. Chaos.

“Fuck the town,” Token said without skipping a beat. “I’m telling you, the dude feels the same way. He talks about you, like, _all the time_.”

This conversation felt too familiar for its own good. Craig stayed silent. Of course, he _had_ considered the _possibility_ that his feelings were requited – mostly just to make himself feel better – but Tweek would _not_ handle that kind of pressure very well anyway. Even if they tried hiding behind closed doors, they’d eventually slip up and get caught.

And South Park was _far_ from a normal mountain town. It would probably be all over the news or some shit.

Finally, after finding his voice, Craig said, “I’ll let you get back to your straighty sex, you disgusting asshat,” and tossed his phone to the side. He sighed when the front door clicked open, rubbing his tired eyes with the heels of his hands. Just in time for Clyde to be home. All he could hope was that the idiot wouldn’t play _Guitar Hero_ at two A.M. Again; otherwise, Craig _would_ beat him over the head with the X-Box controller.

“You alright, Craig?”

Craig opened his eyes, his heart skipping a beat. That definitely was _not_ Clyde’s voice. What the fuck, Tweek wasn’t usually home until late. “Hey,” he said, trying to keep up the cool façade, even though he _knew_ his voice was shaking. Shit.

“Do you – um, do you know what this is?” Tweek sat next to him on the coffee-stained sofa and held out a piece of paper.

Judging by the stray pen marks and scribbled out words, he almost assumed that Tweek _himself_ wrote it, but that wouldn’t make sense. In large, blocky lettering, the center read, _Craig Tucker, please come to this address at 10 a.m. tomorrow. No one follows. I’ll make myself known.’_ Below that was an address he was pretty sure was somewhere in mid-town.

“Um.” He flipped the page over. The back held no additional info, just a tiny piece of scotch tape. “I have no fucking idea.”

“It was on our front door.”

“Weird.” Craig placed the slip on the coffee table, subtly increasing the distance between himself and Tweek when he relaxed back. They were sitting far too close, though Craig _was_ sitting on the middle cushion.

“ _What if it’s the cops, man?!_ ” Tweek said suddenly. “Wha – what if it’s those lame-ass corrupt officers who fucking fed people to that – to that big monster thing? What if they’re trying to lure you – you away so they can _feed_ you to it? You’ll _die_ , Craig. I don’t want you to _die!_ ” At that, he launched forward, throwing his arms around Craig’s neck.

Yep, the universe was laughing at him, no doubt about it. Jesus fucking –

“ _Tweek_ , hon – dude, _calm down_.” Craig obviously _loved_ having Tweek in his arms, but this just wasn’t _fair_. He gently pushed back, keeping a loose hold on Tweek’s shoulders. “No one is feeding me to any monster, I promise. It’s probably just someone playing a prank. Prob’bly Eric Cartman, judging by the shitty handwriting.”

“But why would he _do_ that?!”

“He’s an asshole,” Craig said with a shrug. A simple answer for a simple question. It wouldn’t be the first time the fatass did some weird shit like this.

“Are you going to _go_?”

Craig glanced at the paper. It _was_ tempting. Just out of curiosity alone. Plus, he could totally kick Eric Cartman’s ass if it just turned out to be a stupid prank. He shrugged when he felt the silence stretching on too long.

“Probably,” he said.

Tweek’s eyes widened. Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say. “Don’t do it, man! What if it _is_ something bad? I don’t – I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you…”

Goddamnit. Craig clenched his fist around his knee to avoid literally punching himself in the face. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. If only time machines were real… He forced his face into what he hoped was some form of indifference and shrugged again. “I’ll – I’ll take Clyde or Token with me, then. Sound good?”

Tweek paused. “I – I guess. But I – I wouldn’t want anything to happen to them either.”

Craig leaned back in his seat, draping an arm over the back of the sofa. His heart was beating too fast for its own good. “Nothing’s going to happen, dude. I promise. We’ll be okay.”

Judging by the panicked look on Tweek’s face, he wasn’t too sure about that. Still, he nodded all the same. “Okay, Craig. If you say so.”

“Look,” Craig couldn’t help but smile, “if it’ll make you feel better, we’ll take weapons if need be. I still have my katana, so –”

“You have a fucking _katana!?”_ Tweek literally looked like he was ready to yank a fistful of hair out, his hands flying to the sides of his head.

Craig grabbed his wrists, bringing his hands back down.

“Mmhmm.” He nodded, releasing his hold. He draped his arm back over the side of the sofa. “Clyde, Token, Jimmy and I bought ninja weapons at some fair or something.” It _was_ before he and Tweek ever dated, now that he thought about it. They had never really hung out much before the whole yaoi fiasco. (Excluding the whole… metrosexual phase which was _super_ ironic in retrospect.)

Tweek finally looked away, his wide eyes focusing on the TV. It wasn’t even on, so the dude was doing nothing more than staring at his own reflection, but it seemed to calm him. He stopped twitching at least. “Can you, I don’t know – can you call me when you, um, get there?”

Craig smiled again. “We can do that, no problem. Okay? You feel better?” It was almost a pointless question since it wasn’t like he entirely expected Tweek to automatically chill, but if he was being forced to meet with some shady motherfucker at ten AM, he was going to get some sleep, goddamnit. And he couldn’t fucking sleep if Tweek was going to be freaking out.

“Umm…” Tweek nodded, hesitantly. “I guess so. I – I just don’t trust the people in this town, y'know?”

“Me neither.” He gave his roommate a sidelong glance, finding Tweek already staring at him. It wasn’t a blank stare, thankfully; there was a sort of softness in Tweek’s eyes like he wanted to say something more, but Craig couldn’t blame him if he didn’t. It reminded him a little of when they were younger. It was… nice. It hurt a little, he couldn’t lie, but it was still nice.

His heart skipped a beat; it was hard to hide, though he didn’t really _try_. He just grinned and tried not to laugh when Tweek jumped like he’d been shocked. Eventually, however – once he apparently realized that he wasn’t being pranked – Tweek smiled back. It was reminiscent of the one that helped Craig fall for him to begin with.

It was beautiful.

~ ~ ~

Skeeter’s Bar paid decent-enough wages. Emphasis on decent- _enough_. Not great or anything, but just enough to keep things afloat: Car payments, rent, electricity, phone, etc., etc. What it _didn’t_ do, however, was pay Craig enough to be nice to every customer. He decidedly was _not_ as friendly as his boss expected him to be.

Not that Skeeter actually _noticed_ half the time. Yesterday was a fluke. Most days, he spent far too long sitting at the counter, watching the large TV behind the bar. He usually watched football or _Maury_ or some other lame-ass shit like the wonderful employer he’d proven himself to be.

It basically gave Craig the needed freedom to be a total asshole on the days when Skeeter couldn’t be bothered to give a fuck about anything except _Maury’s_ Freak of the Week. As long as Craig didn’t, of course, spill an entire tray of drinks on Randy Marsh and his asshole friends again.

Most days, he flippantly ignored everyone, leaving Stoley to take over as waiter. Stoley could bitch and moan all he wanted; the dude whined about literally everything anyway, and would sooner sell Craig to Satan than deal with all the annoying, redneck assholes.

So, when Craig noticed Stan Marsh and Kenny McCormick saunter inside, he glanced at Stoley. The dude, unfortunately, was too busy messing with his apron to notice any newcomers. He seemed to be having trouble adjusting the neck length; a few _Star Trek_ buttons adorned the straps. Fucking nerd.

He sighed and grabbed his notepad out of his apron pocket. Marsh and McCormick seated themselves in the back corner again. It was strange seeing the two of them by themselves. Not seeing Eric Cartman was fantastic, of course; not seeing Kyle Broflovski, however, was just… weird. But Craig didn’t care enough to ask where Marsh’s faux-boyfriend was.

Marsh held his head in his hands, his messy hair far-cry from Craig’s well-kempt own.

McCormick rolled his eyes at nothing; his orange jacket was stained an oily black, so he probably only just got off work. Much as Craig hated to admit it, the guy was a decent mechanic.

“Alright, what d’you want?” Craig asked reproachfully.

Marsh ignored him entirely, still in mental-breakdown mode, it seemed. He kept mussing his mop further as he raked his fingers over his head. If he were blonde, he’d almost look like Tweek. (Fuck, what a disturbing thought.)

McCormick, on the other hand, sighed and grabbed the menu at the center of the table. “I think our friend, Stanny, here, needs a long, hard drink,” he said, flipping the laminated sheet back-to-front several times over. Not that Skeeter had many menu options.

“What’s your problem?” Craig asked, despite his better judgement. He couldn’t pretend to care. They’d known each other, like, twenty years, but that didn’t mean that he gave two shits about them. “Your girlfriend dump you again?”

Marsh lifted his head, looking very much like he _wanted_ to glare, but had never learned _how_ to. In the end, he only shook his head and lowered his hands. “Can I just get whatever your strongest drink is?” he croaked, eyes wide. Dude looked like he’d seen a fucking ghost or some shit.

“I can mix a bunch of shit together and see what happens,” Craig deadpanned. 

McCormick, for whatever reason, lit up like a fuckin’ Christmas tree. “You have some nice ideas, Tucker,” he said, leaning his dirt-encrusted elbow on the table. Dude needed a washing machine, like yesterday.

Craig looked back at the bar where his manager sat. Skeeter didn’t notice a thing; his eyes were still drawn to the screen. _Maury_ was playing, of course, as per the usual; Skeeter’s eyes were blank, like he was watching something vitally important. Across the way, Stoley had stopped playing with his apron strings and had instead took to playing with his cell phone.

Either way, he was pretty sure that neither of them gave a shit if he poured a ton of alcohol into a giant mug. Half the time, he also wanted to do the same. Working here would drive _anyone_ to drink, honestly, but especially as a twenty-three-year-old ‘homosexual’. The rednecks in this town basically acted like his sexuality was fucking contagious or something.

Whatever.

“Coming right up then, I guess,” he said with a shrug.

Stoley smiled weakly at him. “Thanks, Craig,” he said, stowing his phone away in his apron. “I saw them fighting yesterday and didn’t wanna get in the middle of another shitshow.”

Craig didn’t reply because _he_ was the one who had to stand and listen to the Awful Foursome fight about nothing, not Stoley. He just stood silently at the bar and began pouring a bit of almost everything that they had into one giant mug, ignoring Stoley’s little hums of disapproval. He planned on charging Marsh for _everything_ because that was what he was basically giving him: Literally everything.

When done, he took the drink back to the table.

“It’s a clusterfuck, alright,” he commented when McCormick raised his eyebrows. The mug was too full; some liquid sloshed on the already dirty table. Marsh didn’t seem to notice; he stared straight ahead, eyes focused on nothing.

“It’ll taste awful,” McCormick said, looking into the mug like something was going to pop out and eat him.

“Probably.” Craig was about to turn back to Stoley to tell him that he was going on break when something hit him. He spun back around on heel. “Is your asshole friend pranking me?” he said on a whim, folding his arms.

Marsh sipped his mug delicately, his eyes still a million miles away. Obviously, everything was still white noise in the mind of Stanley Marsh, since he wasn’t even wincing at the probable bad taste. Apparently, he was able to ignore anything if he broke down far enough.

Craig sort of wished that he had that power; it would have made life a little bearable.

McCormick, however, drew his eyebrows together. “The hell are you talking about?” He did seem _genuinely_ confused like Craig was fucking punking him or something. “Did Cartman do something?”

“That’s what I’m asking _you_ ,” Craig said, lowering his voice because Stoley was staring at him oddly. He leaned in further, splaying his hands over the edge of the table and looking at McCormick. “ _You’re_ too busy to fuck with me with your twelve jobs –” he nodded at Marsh “– _you’re_ too big a pussy to kill your goddamn choir-boy image, “– and Broflovski, well, he probably doesn’t have the balls either.”

McCormick didn’t react. He only raised his eyebrows again. “Seriously. What the fuck is up, Tucker?”

Craig stood back to full height. “Tweek found a paper taped to our door this morning,” he said, glancing back at Stoley again. The guy had taken to watching _Maury_ with their boss; fucking brownnoser. “And I just –” he sighed as he turned back to face the pair and crossed his arms, “– I just want to know if Eric Cartman put it there.”

Marsh seemed to snap out of whatever stupid trance he was in.

McCormick opened his mouth. Then shut it. Then opened it again. “Was it – did it – did it ask you to meet someone somewhere?” he asked, giving Marsh a sidelong glance.

Marsh stared at Craig, his mouth a thin line.

Hesitantly, Craig unfolded his arms. “Yes.”

“Stan had one of those, too,” McCormick said slowly. “It asked him to meet someone –”

“In midtown?” Craig finished. He looked back at his co-worker and boss again. Skeeter’s attention was still on the TV and probably wouldn’t be wavering if there were still paternity tests to be had. Stoley, on the other hand, was playing with his phone again, his eyes half-mast. It was a dull day, no doubt. They were preoccupied, though; that was the important part.

“Uh, yeah.” Marsh cleared his throat. His hand trembled too hard to keep a steady hold on the mug, so he set it back on the table. “Are you – are you going to go?”

Craig shrugged a shoulder. “Probably. I’m gonna take my katana, though, just in case. I mean, I guess I sorta thought that the note was trying to lure me out ‘cause I’m gay, but,” he scratched his arm, not missing Marsh’s strange, little wince at the words, “if they asked _you_ , too, maybe not. It prob’bly _is_ Cartman fucking with us then.”

McCormick took a sip out of the mug and seemed to immediately regret it. He went cross-eyed, sticking his tongue out. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he choked out, pushing the drink to the edge of the table.

“Wait, you still have your ninja weapon?” A hint of a smile appeared, though Marsh’s eyes were still wide. Something must have fucked him up, no doubt.

“Hell yeah, dude,” Craig said with a small smile of his own. He forced it back when the pair looked up at him. He couldn’t _smile_ at these guys, Jesus. They were his fucking rivals, for fuck’s sake. “It’s a _katana_. It’s fuckin’ badass. Don’t you still have yours?”

McCormick stared solemnly at the clusterfuck concoction, sliding his knuckle along the outer rim of the glass.

Sore subject. Shit.

“You gonna go with him, McCormick?” he said quickly because even Craig Tucker knew when he _might_ have admittedly went too far.

The sleazy asshat went from almost uncharacteristic indifference to fucking sunshine in an instant. It was a little alarming, honestly, but the guy didn’t seem to let things _get_ to him. It was probably why _he_ wasn’t the one crushing on his best friend like a fucking idiot. He threw an arm around Marsh’s shoulder, showing off every chipped tooth with a wide grin.

“Fuck yeah,” he said, squeezing Marsh’s shoulder, “I’m sure he can handle whatever, but I’m curious.”

Craig lifted his eyebrows. “ _Only_ you? Not Broflovski?” Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski normally came as a set, after all, one rarely seen without the other.

Craig was pretty sure the only reason Broflovski wasn’t there was that he was at work or whatever. He and Marsh had to have had _some_ semblance of individuality, he supposed, even if it meant getting that expensive separation surgery.

“Kyle has work,” McCormick said, leaping to the rescue like the faux-hero he claimed to be. Marsh _did_ noticeably wince, though tried covering it with a fake sneeze. He would’ve made a terrible actor, not even making it as a background extra.

“ _You_ taking anyone, Tucker?” Marsh asked.

Craig shrugged again. “Clyde or Token, maybe.” He’d have to text Token later because Clyde would probably wind up being a no-go; he was probably still all depressed about Bebe or whatever. Lame.

“Not Tweek?” McCormick frowned. “Aren’t you guys, like, dating or –”

“You honestly think Tweek would want to dive head-long into possible _danger_? Fuck no,” Craig said quickly, trying to quell the blush he _knew_ was already trying to spread along his face, “plus, we broke up forever ago. We’re _friends_ ; _just_ friends.” He hated the way his face burned every time he talked about his ex. “ _And_ that was all fake; it was to make all you motherfuckers happy. It’s not – it’s not like I’m in love with the guy or anything, Jesus.”

The tremor in his voice totally gave him away, _fuck_. He knew that the pair knew it, too. He knew it by the way McCormick’s face twisted into a terrible smirk like he’d been told a dirty, little secret. He knew it by the way Marsh stared at him, a sort of… sympathetic look in his big, doe eyes. He knew it because his heart almost stopped when it occurred him that he pretty much just confessed to these idiots – two people he’d never even really _liked_ – that he was still pathetically pining away for someone he’d never really dated to begin with.

“Guess we’ll see you tomorrow, then?” McCormick said, still smirking.

Craig made a noise that he could only _hope_ conveyed both vague agreement and ‘shut the fuck up.’ He stalked away, avoiding Stoley’s almost worried glance and muttered to Skeeter that he was skipping out early today. Skeeter waved him off, eyes still focused on the Freak of the Week.

At the very least, he was going to kick Eric Cartman’s ass tomorrow.


	5. Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, this story actually has a plotline!

Deciding that he was fucking _attracted_ to his best friend was bad enough.

It sucked, sure, but they’d been best friends almost their entire lives; they were bound to eventually get… curious. Or at least _Stan_ was anyway. He was bound to eventually wonder what it would be like if _they_ ever – what it would be like to –

But finding out that his best friend was already _seeing_ someone, only shot another nail in the coffin. 

Not that Stan hadn’t been through worse. Of course, he had. Two decades wasn’t a long time or anything, but spending twenty-three years in _South Park, Colorado_ had certainly given him some interesting stories to tell. And he knew that Kyle thought he was mad. He _definitely_ knew. He knew from the way that Kyle would skim along the surface of the subject, always on the verge of discussing _it_ , but never quite diving into the weighty details. Plus the fact that Kyle had spent basically the entire morning just _staring_ at Stan; staring instead of actually _talking_.

Stan wasn't going to lie: It hurt. It hurt like a motherfucker. Not just because he was seeing _someone_. _That_ hurt a lot, of course because it was the literal epitome of ‘bad timing’ on Kyle’s part.

But because Kyle was seeing _Wendy_ , of all people.

“I think we should – um…” Kyle paused, his spoon hovering over the bowl. He had to leave for work soon and was running late, as per the usual, but he never skipped breakfast. He ate cereal like it was going out of style. Milk drizzled off the edge of the spoon as he lazily tilted it due to lack of attention.

He studied Stan carefully.

Stan swallowed some air, hating his burning ears. Having Kyle scrutinize him, like he was a fucking science experiment gone wrong, was making his stomach flip for all the wrong reasons. “Look,” he muttered, looking at his lap again, “I don’t mind that you’re seeing her. Really, I don’t.”

“If it bothers you, Stan – I –”

“Kyle.” Stan slapped his palm on the table, making his bowl – and Kyle, for that matter – jump. “Seriously. If you like her, go for it. You two are perfect for one another, anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Kyle’s freckled face tinted pink. “I do like her, I _really_ do, but you’re my best friend. I’d rather have you than her.”

It took Stan far too long to realize that Kyle obviously meant, _I’d rather have you as a best friend than have her as a_ girl _friend_. Because of fucking _course_ , of all the members of their fucked-up quartet, Kyle was _always_ going to be the straight one: Kenny was pansexual; Cartman probably was at least bi, _if_ not gay (if _his_ obsession with Kyle was anything to go by); and Stan was – well, Stan _was_ still straight.

He was _straight_ , goddamnit. Being attracted to his life-long best friend was bound to happen eventually. It didn’t mean that _he_ was gay. Or bi. Or whatever. He wasn't attracted to Kenny, and he _definitely_ was never going to find Cartman attractive. 

“Ky,” he said, “go for it, man. Really. I want you to be happy. I want you _both_ to be happy.” He tried to forced a smile and judging by the stagnant expression on Kyle’s face, it didn’t work. “Honestly, you guys have a lot in common. More than me and her, anyway.”

Kyle sighed. “C’mon, dude. I already feel like an asshole.”

Stan stayed silent for several seconds. What was he _supposed_ to say? Technically, Kyle was right; it _was_ kind of a dick move to date your friend’s ex. He stared at his bowl again; soggy remnants of Cheerios floated along the surface, turning the milk brown. Gross. “I sorta burned that bridge anyway,” he eventually said when it started to feel like Kyle was literally burning holes in his head, “We’re never getting back together.”

 _That_ part was at least true. Calling her up drunk at three A.M. was definitely a no-no in the _How to Get Wendy to Like You_ handbook. So yeah, that bridge was burned. That bridge had turned to ash. That bridge’s remains were floating in the void somewhere in San Francisco and he was never taking another trip _there_. 

“I just hope she wouldn’t use me to get back at you or something.” Kyle frowned thoughtfully, and Stan would’ve probably found it cute if the words hadn’t cut so deep. He pretended not to notice Kyle staring at _him_ thoughtfully, or sadly, or whatever; he more or less just didn’t want Kyle to _look_ at him, period. “We’ll talk more later,” he finally said, getting to his feet; the car keys jingled in his pocket as he strode toward the entrance.

And just like that, he was gone.

Stan sighed, leaning his elbow on the table. Somehow, some fucking _way_ , he managed to lean too far, tilting the bowl. Cold milk and soggy cereal spilled on his jeans and dripped to the floor.

“Aw, awwww! Goddamnit.” He turned to see the time. It was almost 9:30. Kenny would be here soon and now he had to fucking change his pants. Fucking weak.

~ ~ ~

When Kenny arrived, Stan was _hardly_ ready. He’d spent the last ten or so minutes trying to find a pair of hole-less jeans which proved difficult. Most of his jeans were from his lame-ass ‘emo phase’ that he never wanted to think about ever again. Partly due to Kyle and Kenny’s incessant teasing, but that was neither here nor there.

He knew Kenny was there just by the horn. He always laid on the horn like he wanted the fucking _Devil_ to hear that, as he put it, “the party had arrived.” Despite working part-time as a mechanic, the dude didn’t own his own car; usually, he just wound up borrowing his brother’s jeep.

Sighing, Stan grabbed his phone. Kenny picked up on the first ring.

“Yoooo,” Kenny drawled, “we doin’ this or not?”

Stan balanced the phone on his shoulder as he continued rummaging through his closet. He definitely didn’t consider himself a hoarder, but goddamn, he had a _lot_ of shit. “I’m trying to find pants, dude,” he said, tossing more and more stuff aside. He’d have to clean his room at some point. Maybe tonight. (But probably not.)

“Dude.”

“I ruined my only good pair. It looks like I fuckin’ pissed myself.”

Kenny paused. “ _Did_ you –”

“Dude, _gross_. No!”

Kenny chuckled into the phone. “Just hurry up. The thing said to meet them at 10.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan muttered, trying to wade through the giant mess. Still no unholy jeans. Fuck.

“Just…I dunno,” Kenny said, his voice turning sickly-sweet. It was enough to make Stan want to puke. Especially since he _knew_ Kenny was probably smirking like a stupid motherfucker. “I’m sure _Kyyyyyle_ has a pair you could borrow.”

“Dude.” Stan rolled his eyes, immensely thankful that this wasn’t a face-to-face conversation. Even though the R-tard was right outside the door, acting like Stan’s prom chaperone or some shit. Like Stan was some acne-ridden sixteen-year-old with a crush.

“C’mon, Stanley,” Kenny cooed into the speaker. It was still staticky as all fuck, like he was speaking through Hell’s hotline, but the message was loud and clear: “Just borrow a pair of _Kyle’s_ jeans. They’ll smell like him and they make his ass look _great_.”

“ _Dude!”_ Telling Kenny _anything_ was a mistake. A simple, stupid mistake. Besides – and he didn’t say this out loud – Stan was _much_ taller than Kyle. Even _if_ the jeans _could_ make Kyle’s ass look great – not that Stan had been looking – Stan would just wind up looking… ridiculous.

Kenny burst out laughing.

Shit. Was he talking out loud? Fuck.

“Just man up and steal Kyle’s pants.”

The line died.

Stan almost threw his phone, but only rolled his eyes and set it on the dresser. He carded a hand through his hair as he looked around the former hoarder's paradise he called a bedroom. Well, shit. All his pants were either holey beyond belief or stained. But maybe – no. He couldn’t just borrow _Kyle’s_ jeans; they were nowhere near the same height, but then again, Kyle _did_ tend to roll the cuffs on some of his longer pairs.

So maybe?

Or maybe he could just wear pajama pants?

No, then he’d die in his PJs. Which would be uber lame.

Oh, fuck it.

Five minutes later, Stan was done carefully rummaging through Kyle’s closet (putting everything back in order because Kyle would kill him otherwise). He made his way to Kenny’s – or rather, Kevin’s – jeep, wincing with each step. _Technically_ , he fit into the jeans, but they were a bit –

“ _Oh. My. God_. _”_ Kenny killed the engine and honestly, was well on his way to kill _himself_ if he didn’t get some air soon. His face flushed bright red as he howled with laughter, slapping his hands on the steering wheel. The horn rang out a couple times, but he seemed not to notice. Or care.

“Shut the fuck up,” Stan muttered, feeling his own face flush as he slammed the passenger-side door. Both due to the obvious embarrassment and because these pants were going to wind up murdering his balls by the end of the day. He’d never have any biological children.

Goodbye Marsh-family linage.

“Holy shit, Stan.” Kenny wiped his eyes on the scrunched-up sleeve of his stained parka. “Did you, like, _try_ to find the tightest pair?”

“Fuck _off_.” Stan tried to discreetly tug at the crotch, though it did little to help his slowly dying sperm count. Denim was _so_ unforgiving. It rode back up almost instantly, determined to crush his balls in the process. These weren’t even _skinny_ jeans, for Christ’s sake. They were like… straight-fit or something. Kyle was just so fucking short.

If, by any chance, they _were_ on their way to meet a fucking serial killer or whatever, the dude – or dudette – would wind up laughing themselves to death at his ascending testicles. He was going to wind up reversing like Benjamin goddamn Button.

Jesus H. Christ. How humiliating.

“Seriously,” Kenny gestured with a little wave of his hand, his grimy face still flushed pink, “what the hell. You can _not_ tell me that these are the only pair that fit you.”

Stan stayed quiet because it was really his own line of defense. He stared out the window at the empty apartment. He _really_ needed to clean his room later, hopefully before Kyle returned from work. Not that Kyle would see his room anyway, but he wanted to _talk_. The last thing Stan wanted to do was _talk_ ; especially if the subject was his ex-girlfriend, Wendy.

Kenny thankfully didn’t press the matter. He only restarted the engine, grinning like he'd been gifted a brand new porche for Christmas. 

Stan rolled his eyes, hoping that _maybe_ Craig would chicken out because just about the _last_ thing he needed was for Craig fucking Tucker to see him like this. They already didn’t like one another; this would only give the fucker fuel to start the world’s largest fire.

~ ~ ~

They didn’t find the address until a quarter past ten. Kenny leapt out of the jeep like there was no tomorrow, though Stan stayed put. Partly because of his roommate’s stupid jeans squeezing the shit out of his groin, but also because he wanted to scope the area. They were in front of an abandoned building in an empty parking lot in the middle of midtown. Checking the GPS only confirmed what he knew: They were about in as the center of South Park, Colorado as they were going to get.

“C’mon, Stan.” Kenny opened the passenger’s side door, nearly sending Stan tumbling over. “Let’s see if Craig fucker is here.”

Stan didn’t need to scope anything to see that there was no one else here. The parking lot was a desolate wasteland at this point; a lost cause; far from an easy ‘fixer-upper.’ Dandelions grew sideways through cracks in the cement and the faded paint lines seemed pointless now.

Still, he got out of the vehicle at Kenny’s incessant prodding – as in the guy kept poking Stan’s cheek and going, “c’mon, Stan. Come _on_ , Stan.”

“You think he’s in there?” Kenny asked, nodding at the building. It looked like it had once been a grocery store, though it was hard to say; everything had been painted over in a thick layer of off-white.

Stan opened his mouth to say that this was probably not their best plan when another car pulled up beside them. It was a cherry-red Rolls-Royce: A rich person car.

Craig emerged from the passenger’s side and immediately turned to Kenny, leaning beside him on the hood of the jeep. “Have you seen anyone?” he asked, not sounding even remotely concerned. Or even curious. More indifferent than anything, though that was nothing new.

Token got out of the driver’s side, his face a picture-perfect example of ‘why the hell did I agree to this?’ He threw his hands in the air. “I canceled my date to take you to an abandoned _Target?_ ”

Craig ignored him. He didn’t have the gall to respond, which was probably wise, honestly. Token looked like he was literally going to murder Tucker in his sleep tonight. Craig turned to Stan and raised his eyebrows.

“What’s your problem, Marsh? Sick or something?”

For the first time, Stan realized that he _was_ trying to hide. At least hide the lower half of his body, badly concealing it behind the jeep door. He really should have just stuck with the milk-stained jeans because having them think that he pissed himself like a five-year-old would be easier to deal with than the tight-jean nightmare Kyle apparently squeezed himself into every other day.

Or fuck, just manned up and wore his pajamas.

Kenny smirked, eyes looking Stan up and down. “He had a little accident this morning.”

Despite Stan’s weak, verbal protests, Craig grabbed the door and effortlessly slammed it. He stumbled a little, fumbling to cover himself with his hands. Judging by Kenny, Craig and Token’s amused glances, it didn’t work.

Token chuckled. “I thought Shelly was in New Hampshire.”

“She is, but –”

“Fucking Christ, Marsh; 2007 called, it wants its pants back,” Craig quipped, looking like he was fighting back a grin of his own.

Stan rolled his eyes even as his face grew warm. “I didn’t – look, let’s just get this shit over with. If Cartman’s messing with us, I wanna at least get a good punch in.” He kept his eyes focused on the building, ignoring the growing laughter.

“I dunno, Stan,” Token jested, “can you walk? Or d’you need a piggy-back ride?”

Stan shot him a glare. It did nothing to quell the laughter.

Craig shook his head, not even bothering to hide his grin anymore; it looked odd. He tugged on the front of his chullo, pulling it further over his eyes. “I’m not carrying Panic! At the Disco, here, anywhere.” He grabbed his cell from his jacket pocket, typed out a quick message, and then stowed it away again. When Token shot him an odd glance, he muttered something under his breath, his face reddening.

Stan didn’t bother to ask. He only motioned at the building again with a long sweeping gesture of his hand. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Though he didn’t wipe off his stupid smirk, Craig nodded and turned back to the car. When he pulled an unsheathed katana from the backseat, Stan found that he wished he still had _his_ weapon. He threw his out some months after the whole ‘ninja star’ fiasco with Butters and Kenny. (Which, all he knew was that Kenny was really fucking lucky that Butters didn’t permanently lose his eyesight because hello, multi-million-dollar lawsuit courtesy of Stephen and Linda Stotch.)

Kenny, in an act of somehow forgetting about Stan’s little… predicament, threw an arm around his shoulder. “C’mon, Stanny,” he said as Stan staggered to keep his balance because if he fell, he was probably not going to get back up without tearing a huge hole straight down the ass, “let’s go kick some butt.”

As they made their way to the building, Stan found himself wishing that one of them _would_ carry him. He stumbled with almost every step even after Kenny removed his arm. Briefly, he made a mental note to ask Kyle why the fuck the dude’s pants were so tight, but then retracted the thought. Kyle didn’t need to know that Stan borrowed his pants to begin with _and_ Kyle would probably assume that Stan _was_ staring at his ass. Kyle already got uncomfortable when he knew _women_ were staring at his ass; hearing it come out of his supposed straight best friend’s mouth probably wouldn’t go over too well.

When they reached the entrance, everyone stopped.

Stan exchanged a glance with Token, who shrugged. He kept glancing at his phone. He was probably either texting his girlfriend about how lame everything was, or he was _tweeting_ about how lame everything was.

Kenny flittered his hand at Craig. “Well, go on, Tucker,” he said, nodding at the large katana Craig had poised behind him like he was playing batter at a very violent baseball game, “you’re the one with the weapon. You should go first.”

Craig shot him a hard glare, all humor gone. “Yeah, and _you’re_ the one who claims to be immortal. _You_ go first.”

“I _am_ immortal!”

“Then you should have no problems leading the way.”

“That doesn’t mean I _want_ to fuckin’ die. It fucking _hurts_.”

“ _Move,_ McCormick!”

“ _You_ move, Tucker!”

Stan stepped between the pair (with some carefully planned effort).

Craig had the katana raised in a more-than-willing gesture to literally hack Kenny’s head clean off, and even if Kenny really _was_ immortal, Stan wasn’t willing to witness a decapitation. He’d done his fair share of puking lately. He glanced at Token who didn’t notice because he was too busy texting. Again.

So. Fucking. Helpful.

“Guys, c’mon,” he said instead, looking between the pair. “Let’s just _all_ go in. Together.”

Neither one moved.

Craig still looked a little too willing to lob Kenny’s head straight off his shoulders, and Kenny looked a little too willing to _let_ him. Slowly, however, Craig lowered the sword and Kenny took a long step back. They nodded solemnly at one another, each taking a side.

Stan and Token walked between them as they pushed on the front door; it gave too easily, revealing exactly what Stan imagined: Mostly nothing. Debris brought on by natural wear and tear. In the center of the room sat a broken table with three chairs.

Odd.

“This is fuckin’ lame,” Craig muttered. His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to glance at the screen. Stan thought it was probably Clyde or Tweek; more likely Tweek, judging by the soft smile that dared graze Craig’s normally stoic features. Only Tweek seemed to bring that side out, whether or not Craig would _admit_ to it.

“I don’t know why we’re falling for this shit,” Token said, his eyes still on his own phone.

“Yeah, it’s prob’bly just Cartman,” Kenny added, scratching the back of his head.

“I wanna just get one good punch in,” Craig said.

“But I don’t know why he’d ask for _me_ ,” Stan said, glancing at Kenny. “He hates _Kyle,_ not _me_.” Eric Cartman always seemed to have a weird-ass obsession with messing with _Kyle’s_ head, not Stan’s. Granted, when they were younger, everyone sort of took them as a packaged two-for-one deal because if Kyle Broflovski were around, you bet your ass Stan Marsh wouldn’t be far behind.

Still, though. They weren’t literally the same person and even _Cartman_ knew that.

Token shrugged, eyes still drawn to his iPhone. The glow from the screen illuminated his face. “Maybe, but he probably knows that you know that and purposely wrote your name instead of Kyle’s _to_ mess with Kyle.” For the first time, he looked up and looked around the room, frowning thoughtfully. “Kyle sorta has this – this, I dunno, superiority complex or whatever and thinks that Cartman’s world revolves around him.”

“I mean…” Kenny badly hid a smile behind a gloved hand. “It sorta does.”

“Still. If Kyle thinks that this _is_ about Stan, it’ll really mess with him. Which, in turn, will give Cartman what he really wants – a chance _to_ mess with Kyle.” Token leaned against the door frame, folding his arms.

“That almost sounds _too_ complicated for Eric Cartman to come up with,” Craig quipped. “Plus, it doesn’t really explain why he had to rope _me_ into this.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Kenny said with another half-hearted shrug. He seemed to drop the almost-laughter, though offered a slight smile. “He hates you.”

“Oh.” Craig swung the katana around to rest gently on his shoulder. He didn’t seem too affronted, so Stan could only guess that the feeling was mutual.

“Well, whatever.” Kenny waved a dismissive hand, flipping back around. “We’re not falling for it, Eric. We’re outta here. I got shit to do.”

Stan paused even as Craig and Token turned to follow Kenny. Something didn’t feel _quite_ right. Was it getting _warmer_? Or was he just imagining things? It was hard to say.

But then – fuck; it _was_ getting warmer.

His coat glued itself to his skin, drenching him in sweat. He shrugged it off without a second thought and draped it over his arm, even though one look outside showed snow falling from the frozen sky. It was Colorado in fucking _December_ , for Christ’s sake.

“Uh, guys?” he said, looking around for – for – something? A sign? A sign of _what_ though? When the others turned to him, their faces a mixed bag of _what the hell do you want, Marsh?_ indifference, he waved his arm. How did they not _feel_ that? It was like ten degrees outside; in here, it was heading toward seventy. And fast.

No one noticed a thing until the ground started quaking.

Kenny seemed to understand straight away, his eyes growing wide. He snatched Token’s forearm and began dragging him toward the open entrance, amid the other’s arm-flailing protests.

Craig furrowed his brows, though didn’t argue.

Stan treaded carefully behind the trio. He wind-milled his arms far too often, trying not to lose his balance. Or jacket. The others still didn’t seem to notice the temperature change – what the fuck? Were his nerves playing tricks on his mind? His stomach twisted; the ground was _definitely_ shaking as the building started to crumble all around them. The note was a trick; it _had_ to have been a trick.

The walls were splitting, the fragile structure compromised under the shaking foundation. A large chunk of the roof collapsed inward, crashing inches from the tips of their shoes.

Kenny, Token and Craig leapt back; Craig’s katana flew straight out of his hand, soaring over Stan’s ducked head. It landed some ten feet back, sticking straight-up in front of a guy wearing a black turtleneck and a scowl.

Stan had never been literally rendered speechless before, but _seriously_. “Wha –”

The center of the room opened, the dirt caving inward like an invisible crane was digging out the icy earth. Fire ignited the hole and along the outer rim, like a literal firewall.

When Kenny took a step forward, Stan snatched his parka hood, yanking him back. When Kenny replied with a quizzical glance, Stan only nodded toward the other side.

Kenny didn’t seem to notice at first. He only squinted through the sapphire light, his pale face flushed in the growing heat. He was half-way through slipping off his parka when realization dawned. His jaw dropped, and he paused, one arm in, one arm out.

Behind them, Craig and Token hadn’t said the damn thing. When Stan gazed back at the pair, he noticed that their reactions almost seemed… understated. Life in South Park Colorado was weird, sure, but Jesus. Only when their jaws finally slackened did he look back at the blue flames: A pair of pallid horns rose slowly from the hole as if being lifted by puppeteer strings. A large, crimson head arrived next, the owner’s eyes squeezed shut.

Stan recognized him in an instant and judging by his wide eyes, Kenny did too. The body drifted upward, arms crossed, eyes closed. Then, all at once, the fire snuffed out, leaving a trail of ash in its wake.

With the fire went the heat, leaving Kenny to pull his parka back in place. “Satan?” he said in a tiny voice.

Satan fluttered to the frozen ground, landing directly before the pair. Though he hadn’t seen the guy in years, Stan was pretty sure that Satan had grown larger. He swallowed, hard.

When Satan’s eyes opened, he looked to the left, to the right, and then finally straight down. He frowned, almost sheepishly. “Shit, guys. I’m sorry.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I know my notes said ten and it’s like, what, half past?”

Stan exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Kenny. What the fuck. What the _fuck_. It kinda felt like he’d just gotten the blue screen of death. He blurred the background; the strong scent of burning flame remained even with the snow fluttering in through the broken roof. Maybe Satan just smelled like firewood?

“Uh…” Craig smartly said from some ten feet back. He sounded much less affected than he probably should have, though knowing him, it was all for show anyway. He approached the big guy slowly, stopping when his and Stan’s arms briefly brushed.

“You’re Stan Marsh and Craig Tucker, right?”

Wordlessly, Stan nodded. Craig opened his mouth. Then shut it. Then opened it again. No words came out, just a long-winded, “Uhhhh…” If Stan were a worse person, he would have recorded Craig’s oh, so intellectual, monotone whimper and show it to Tweek.

But even he wasn’t _that_ big a dick.

“Sweet, sweet.” Satan motioned toward the table and chairs; they were now covered in a thick blanket of ash. “Well, please. Sit. I, uh… I won’t have enough seats for everyone though –” He eyed Kenny and Token, smiling warmly at the pair. “Kennyyyy, my man! Nice to see you again!” He held out a huge, red fist.

Kenny bumped it, offering a weak grin.

“Daaaaad…”

Satan glanced back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shit. I _told_ you not to –”

“Dad, you’re doing the – the _thing_ again.” Damien strode easily over the gaping hole as if it weren’t there, arms folded tight.

Satan shook his head. “What am I _possibly_ doing?”

“You’re _embarrassing_ me.”

“Well, I _thought_ I told you to stay home, _son_ ,” Satan grit out, giant jaw clenched. He motioned to the table and chairs with a wide sweep of his hand, flashing the group a quick grin. “Please, please. Sit. We have much to discuss.”

Stan and Craig exchanged a glance. For once, Craig had no sarcastic quip or lame-ass remark; his eyes were wider than Stan ever thought was _possible_ , and he’d seen Craig stare at Tweek like he was afraid the guy wasn’t fuckin’ real or something.

Together they sat down, and Satan took a chair cross from the pair. His body was almost comically large in comparison to the broken-down table; it hardly reached his kneecaps. “You’re likely wondering why I asked you here today, gentlemen,” he said.

“Kinda,” Stan muttered. He felt Kenny lightly squeeze his shoulder between gloved fingertips. Maybe as comfort. Either way, Stan needed to ask how the fuck the two _apparently_ knew each other. Maybe Kenny really _was_ immortal.

“I have a proposition for you.” Satan cleared his throat. A pair of half-moon reading glasses poofed on his face in a tiny cloud of smoke. In one, fluid motion, he slid them up the length of his pointed nose and pulled out a piece of paper out of seemingly nowhere.

“Stan,” he said, squinting through the tiny frames, “I once used you as a vessel to defeat the Canadian Devil, Beezaboot, correct?”

Stan nodded stiffly, keeping his hands clasped around his thighs. This was weird. This was _so_ fucking weird. Yeah, he’d let Satan borrow his form for a while, but he was like, what – _ten_ at the time? Fuck, he still had flashbacks of being doused in pure, unadulterated evil (which he _may_ have occasionally used as an excuse to be a total dick to his sister whenever she graced their already fucked-up town with her even more fucked-up presence).

Satan smiled down at him. It was fuckin’ weird to see the face of all evil _smile_ , though he didn’t seem to notice the air of uncertainty clouding the room; it was thick as all hell, but Satan was blind to the matter. His all-seeing eyes shifted toward Craig. “And Craig,” he said, poofing away the paper in another over-dramatic cloud of smoke, “you’re gay, right?”

Craig bit his lip as he nodded. His eyes returned to their natural, half-mast state like he was already bored with the idea of the literal _devil_ sitting before them. But then, Satan’s presence wasn’t quite as… threatening, as it probably should have been.

“Wonderful,” Satan clapped his hands grinning like he’d just met God himself and punched him in the face. “Then you’re both perfect candidates.”

“Dad, seriously.” Damien piped up again, resting his head against Satan’s shoulder.

Satan sighed, sounding more like a disgruntled parent than someone who could literally snap his fingers and wipe out half of existence. “What _now_ , Damien?”

Damien rolled his eyes; the irises were a deep crimson; he looked like he’d engulfed his eyes in flames before jamming them inside the nearest mortal form. “You can’t just ask him ‘cause he’s _gay_ ,” he muttered, crossing his arms along his chest.

“But _I’m_ gay.” Satan gestured to himself with a wild flourish of his hands. “Who better to ask than _another_ gay guy?” When Damien’s only response was to shuffle his sandal-clad feet, eyes firmly on the ground, Satan’s scowl twisted into an _actual_ evil-looking smirk. “Oh, I get it. You’re _jealous_.”

“ _What?”_ Damien bristled, dark hair smoking as he hovered above the group. “I’m not _jealous_ , dad,” he snapped, his upper lip curling into a horrible sneer as he glanced toward Stan and Craig, “I don’t wanna be the one to catch you another idiot boy toy, anyway.”

Satan laughed, rocking the already broken building. “I more meant that you want them to snag _you_ a boy toy.”

Damien’s hair burst into flames. “What the _fuck_ , dad,” he yelled, voice cracking.

“Oh, _please_.” Satan’s smirk grew as he glanced back at Stan and Craig, and he leaned forward, propping an elbow on the table; the wood split under his weight. “I’ve seen the way you look at you-know-who; you talk big game, but you’re so fucking obvious.”

The flames doused in an instant as the fight in Damien’s eyes died. He drifted back to earth, shifting his weight between legs. He still scowled, but there was no intensity behind it anymore; his pale cheeks were far too red to be only from _anger_.

“Uh, can we go?” Craig asked.

Satan smiled, though much like Stan’s grasp on reality, it was slow and hesitant. “In due time, boys. I just need to explain why I called you here, and I’ll send you on your merry way.”

“Sure?” Stan slipped a hand under his hat to scratch his head. It was growing cold again, even though the room still smelled like burnt ash.

“I’ve been alone for so long, boys,” Satan said with a sigh. Absently, he rubbed a hand down his goatee, staring wistfully between Stan and Craig’s shoulder blades. “I thought you’d both be _perfect_ to help me find love again.”

“Because I’m gay,” Craig deadpanned. “Because all gay people are connected in a throe of interpersonal relations.”

“Well, yes, but also because you’re in a nice, stable relationship.” Satan grinned, looking much happier than anyone from Hell probably _should_ have. A batch of flames flittered above his horned head like a fiery halo; either he was returning to his roots as a fallen angel or was conjuring his own version of Cupid.

Craig tugged his hat over his eyes, cheeks coloring. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Satan scoffed, waving a hand, “I know I haven’t been to Earth in _quite_ some time, let alone fuckin’ Colorado, but I remember the yaoi.” He brightly grinned, the flames above his head glowing blue. “I bought a couple pieces; they’re hanging in my living room.”

“We’re _not_ dating, dude,” Craig grumbled, pulling his hat further. It hid most of his face, save his mouth and chin. The tremor in his voice was a _far_ cry from his usual monotone drawl.

Satan glanced at Stan, who shrugged a shoulder because though he and Craig were _never_ going to qualify as even the most casual of friends, he was pretty fuckin’ sure Craig still had the hots for his ex. Not that he was willing to say anything out _loud_ , considering the hypocrisy alone. _Kenny_ was already never going to let him live it down; he didn’t even want to _think_ about what Craig would say if he knew about Stan’s stupid crush.

“Okay, well…” Satan blinked and rubbed the back of his neck. “Regardless, I’d appreciate the help. Would you help me find a boyfriend? Or at least a date for Valentine’s Day? I can’t go another fuckin’ year in Hell without a date for _Valentine’s_ Day. I mean, _fuck_ , even my pussy-ass ex, Chris, found someone. Granted, the guy Chris is seeing has six heads and a _tail_ , but _still_.”

Ignoring the implications that Satan could possibly be racist against his own kind, Stan only said, “What’s in it for us?” The rational side of Stan’s mind screamed that he was _literally_ talking to the goddamn _devil_ , but he ignored it; he also ignored Kenny’s incredulous stare.

Fortunately, Satan only smiled again, a knowing look twinkling in his red eyes. “I’ll try to help you out, too.” He tried grabbing his son’s arm, but Damien snatched it back in an instant, muttering something under his breath.

Even though he _knew_ he’d never get a shot – because Kyle was straight, straight, _straight_ – Stan swallowed thickly and nodded anyway. It wasn’t like he was in _love_ with the guy anyway; he just – he just… he just had a crush. A tiny, minuscule, _barely_ even there _infatuation_ with his life-long best friend. He glanced at Craig who had yet to reemerge from his chullo prison.

At least he wasn’t like _Craig_. Craig _was_ in love and there was no coming back from that.

Craig groaned, tugging his hat back up. His cheeks were the same color as Token’s car. “Yeah, whatever, dude,” he muttered, staring at the split table. “We’ll help you.”

Satan grinned.


End file.
